


Danger Girl

by Squaresville



Series: A Different Point of View [5]
Category: Arthur (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Complicated Relationships, Danger, Drama, Family Drama, Humor, Injury Recovery, Middle School, Romance, School Dances, Sneaky Catherine, Sneaky Fern, Suspense, Teen Romance, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Romantic Tension, friendship drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squaresville/pseuds/Squaresville
Summary: The Autumn Ball is swiftly approaching, but are the students of MCM ready for their first school dance? What starts out as something innocent leads them to discover that a single evening can bring big changes, though all are not necessarily good. See notes for story details.
Series: A Different Point of View [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588570
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. The Magenta Menace

**Author's Note:**

> Story description (mildly spoilerific—skip if you want to go in blind): It’s November in Elwood City, and there is a lot for the students of MCM to anticipate. Opening night for the fall musical will be here before they know it, but they must survive the Autumn Ball, the big school dance, first. Arthur wants to ask Francine to the ball, but Francine is having none of it. She would rather set him up with someone else. Or would she? Buster and Ladonna’s plans to go together are dashed when Ladonna is called away for a family wedding, but someone else already has sights set on Buster as a possible date. George never got the courage to ask Fern, and now he wonders if he will even attend the dance at all. Steadily reclaiming his life, Alan struggles to define his friendship with Muffy after making a discovery about her. And then there is Fern, who cannot be bothered with such nonsense because she is at war with her mother. Will she win?  
> The adults are not having a great time, either. Bitzi wrestles with welcoming a new man into her life, just as she and her ex are becoming better friends. Although Chip has moved closer to home, Catherine is still keeping the Crosswires updated on his wellbeing, and she wonders if she might be overstepping her bounds. And Chip is still dreading Thanksgiving, which is coming up, hard and fast.   
> Read on to find out what happens in "Danger Girl".

This story is rated T for language, themes, suggested subject matter, and description of bodily injury. Reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Series title credit goes to SpongeGuy.

**A Different Point of View, Part 5**

**Danger Girl**

_When the working day is done_

_Oh girls, they wanna have fun_

— _Cyndi Lauper_

**Chapter 1**

**The Magenta Menace**

" _I'm in my room_

_It's a typical Tuesday night_

_I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like_

_And she'll never know your story like I do…"_

It was part of the role she played today, the facile, saccharine music currently streaming through her earbuds. Fern reminded herself of that before subjecting her ears to the wholesome pop idol's song. After that, it was easy to sink into her adopted persona and sway her head to the beat with a contented smile. Fern approached the entrance of Elwood City Hospital with a subtle spring in her step. She was on her way to the morgue.

She had come dressed for the occasion. This was the brightest outfit she had worn in quite some time, if one did not count her costume for the community production of _Annie_ last fall. Today's ensemble was a costume, too, so she was not sure if it really counted either. Regardless, she had been proud of the look she managed to pull together as she checked herself in the bathroom mirror before leaving school today. She had snagged a pleated denim skirt and a pair of pink tights from Care to Ware for a song. A puzzled-but-accommodating Muffy had lent her the pink Taylor Swift tee. The denim jacket was hers, though, as were the white Chucks. They still fit, and she was grateful. A pink ribbon in her hair tied everything together. Fern was small in stature, with round eyes and a sweet, innocent face. Combined with this getup, she could easily pass for eleven, perhaps even ten. And that was the plan. Everything about her this afternoon was all part of the role she had to play.

It was Wednesday afternoon. Today had to be the day since the rest of her week would be eaten up by musical rehearsals. The closer to opening night, the more rehearsals there were. That was usually the way of it. They even had an extra-long rehearsal scheduled for this Saturday morning. Not next Saturday, however; that was the day of the Autumn Ball. As soon as school was out, Fern had headed straight to the girls room to change. Wearing the costume to school would have been much easier, but it likely would have raised questions from some, and she did not wish to answer them. Off went her black jeans, under which she wore the tights, and on went the skirt. She traded her gray thermal for the Taylor Swift shirt, tied the ribbon in her hair, and then she was on the move, hanging back just enough so none of her friends spotted her, taking her planned shortcuts to the hospital.

Now that she had made it here, Fern supposed there was one more thing that would really sell her role, not to mention make it more fun. Though she had acted is if she knew exactly where she was going to avoid being stopped by hospital personnel, she had been hailed by a smiling older man behind the help desk shortly after passing through the main entrance. Fern pulled one of her earbuds out and listened to the graying aardvark man as he kindly asked her if she needed directions. Since she was trying to pass for a younger kid, it was only natural the man would try to aid her, even if his aid was unwanted. Unneeded. To elude suspicion, Fern decided to go with it. What was the harm? She was on her way there anyway.

"Yes, please," she said, allowing her enunciation to loosen, her vocabulary to become more childish and less refined. "I know my grampy's room number. Wrote it on my hand—see?" Fern quickly flashed her palm, upon which she had messily scrawled a number in blue gel ink during final period. The print was small and the number was smeared, but it would look believable without close examination. "But I wanna go to the gift shop first and buy him a balloon. Do you know where that is?"

"Ayuh," said the man, and Fern instantly suspected he was originally from Maine. "You're well on your way, little lady. Just walk straight through the atrium—em, that's the big open area with the chairs…"

The man pointed to the area just ahead of Fern, as if she somehow could not see what was in front of her.

"Got that? Then you'll take a left. Gift shop is past the elevators and on your right. Can't miss it."

"'Kay, thanks!" Fern said brightly, and she continued on.

At the giftshop, Fern purchased a shiny silver mylar with "GET WELL!" emblazoned across its center in bold purple. She asked for a hot pink ribbon to go with it, and consciously bounced on the balls of her feet excitedly as she watched the clerk fill the balloon with helium. Exiting the shop with a pleased expression, she made her way to the elevators, bopping to the music, the balloon tied to her wrist and floating a foot above her head.

Fern took the elevator one floor up, just to keep up pretenses, then took the stairs down to the basement, the balloon bobbing on its tether with each step down. She collected her thoughts on the way, taking out her earbuds and draping the cord over the back of her neck. She would definitely need to keep her ears pricked up starting now. If there were security guards or cameras, she would turn back. Well, maybe she would keep going if there were only cameras, just to see how far she could get. As Stephanie Bachman said in her memoir, a big part of writing something new was seeing what you could get away with. And this was writing, part of Fern's writing process anyway, just as much as drafting, rewrites, or line edits. And if she were being truthful, practical research could also be a bit thrilling. But she was not here to be thrilled. Above all else, she was here to absorb details. The door leading to the basement level was much like the ones at school, but whereas the doors at school were wooden with elongated rectangular windows above the handles, this one was made of metal, and the window was double-paned, with a layer of wire in a twisting honeycomb pattern sandwiched in between. Fern stopped to peer through the glass. All was clear.

The first thing she noticed upon stepping into the basement corridor was the powerful scent of skunky coffee lingering in the air. Either a coffee maker was in a room nearby, or someone had recently passed through with a particularly rank cup. The directory posted on the wall opposite the elevators indicated the morgue was to her left, and she headed in that direction. There were no cameras or guards, which was encouraging. The morgue was a straight shot down a long stretch of corridor, however, which was a letdown. Fern had secretly been hoping for at least a couple of twists and turns. Oh, well. One could not have everything. She could add as many corners as she wanted to the hospital basement in _Danger Girl_. At least she had a baseline. She took in the rest of her surroundings. Unlike the floors above her, which were mostly finished in tile, the floor down here was bare, grayish-brown cement. Several drains studded the floor along the way. In case of flooding, perhaps? Or perhaps they were there to aid cleanup of anything that might leak from a body bag. A drop ceiling hung above her, its rectangular fluorescent light fixtures covered with dusty, square-patterned grates. The walls were cinderblock, coated over in thick and rubbery paint, eggshell white with a blue tinge.

_Eggshell,_ she thought. _Eggshell with the slightest blue cast, possibly due to the fluorescents, which are also a bit blue. I like that—that's certainly going in._

Fern had yet to cross paths with a single person down here. There was an eerie absence of noise one expected from a building occupied with people—no voices carrying, no carts rolling down the hallway, no phones ringing or even doors opening and shutting. There was a low-level humming, but it did not sound as if it came from one source. She was sure the lights were part of it. If the classrooms at school were quiet enough, she could hear the hum of the fluorescents and the air conditioning. That was another thing. It was cold down here, exceptionally cold. Was that mandatory? Was there so much electricity running through this part of the building they had to keep it icy to offset the heat generated by the electrical equipment? Possibly, or it could have something to do with corpses. She could feel the secondhand buzz from the equipment differently, separate from the electric thrill coursing through her in the moment.

There it was. A black placard on the wall next to a set of double doors painted the same shade of eggshell said "MORGUE" in simple white block lettering. These doors had no windows, no way to preview what was inside. Fern wound her hand around the balloon's ribbon until it had shortened enough to clutch it to her chest. She could feel static emanating from it, stretching its fingers out to tickle her under her chin. She paused with her hand on the door handle, and a shiver of unbridled joy spider-walked its way up her spine. It was time to chance a peek inside, but there could well be people behind the doors. Living people.

_That's okay. Just remember your lines. Do it for_ Danger Girl _, for Kelly…_

Fern steeled herself and turned the handle. She cracked the door and cautiously looked through the gap. After witnessing a couple of seconds of no movement, she decided to risk it.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," she breathed.

She took a couple of timid steps inside the morgue. It seemed to be completely empty, and she was awestruck. She let go of the balloon, allowing it to unwind itself until it was back to floating above her head. The odor was awful, putrid, worse than any dead animal she had ever smelled. It was not just a smell that currently hung in the air, waiting to dissipate. It was part of the room, a permanent fixture, like how the cafeteria always smelled of food and floor wax, no matter what time of day one stepped inside. Still, the morgue was everything she hoped it would be and more. It consisted of a suite divided into different sectors, each likely designated for a different task. The most striking and unexpected feature of the main room was what could only be described as a giant shining metal scoop hanging above a large stainless-steel table. The scoop was like the ones found hanging inside those coin-operated claw games at Bowl City, just on a massive scale and obviously not for snagging Dark Bunny plushies. Fern wondered if this device was used to lift more sizable victims onto the table, ultimately deciding that it probably was. Except for the plate scale upon which the table sat, the floor as well as the walls were covered in off-white tiles, very much like the ones found in household bathrooms. There were several drains in the floor here, too, and lengths of black hoses coiled up on the walls. Easy cleanup. To the back of the main room, through a large archway, she could see them. The wall housed several body coolers, looking like a giant checkerboard, only every square was a cold and steely gray. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

As amazing as it was to be in the moment with all this, her time was not unlimited, and she did not want the smell to seep into her clothes.

_Try to explain this one to Mom._

She could stop by the candle and body spray shop on her way home and partake of the testers. Many testers. All the testers. That should knock it out, or at least cause major confusion. Right now, she needed to snap some photos and get out of here. She was very close to making a clean getaway, something she had not accomplished at Kiddie Cove. She took her phone from her jacket pocket and unplugged the earbuds, but before she could pull up her camera, she was interrupted by a stern, deep voice behind her.

"Young lady, what are you _doing_ down here?"

Fern froze.

_Showtime. What's my motivation?_

Before showing her face to the man, Fern pinched her expression, and she willed herself to feel the burning in her nose, for the tears to well in her eyes.

_You're in a terrifying place. No eleven-year-old girl should ever stumble upon a place like this, especially when she's all alone. You were only looking for the commissary. No, the_ cafeteria _. Eleven-year-old girls would say "cafeteria"..._

Fern let out a high-pitched and frightened squeak as she clutched her phone to her chest with one hand. She stretched out the hand with the balloon tied around it and pointed toward the coolers. Her tears began rolling, hot and fat.

_This is horrifying. Absolutely horrifying! You were just here to visit your grampy. That's all. How did this go so wrong?_

"I said why are you down here?"

Fern exhaled a shaky, shuddering breath and said, "Are…are th-th-those… Those have _dead_ people in them, don't they?"

Fern turned to see a tall and skinny blonde monkey, not someone she would have matched with such a voice, but it was certainly an interesting juxtaposition. He wore scrubs in a depressing shade of olive green. It seemed that he had entered the scene with the intent to be threatening, imposing. However, when he set eyes on Fern, her pink outfit, her small frame and watery eyes, his resolve seemed to melt.

"S- Sir? This is where the dead bodies go, isn't it?"

The man's mouth fell open, and he blinked hard as his face turned sympathetic toward her. His name was Troy, according to his lanyard.

"This is the morgue, sweetie, yes," he said, his voice much softer now. "What in the world made you want to come down here?"

"I didn't!" Fern wailed through her tears. "I didn't want to come down here at all! I… I was visiting my grampy on the third floor. He's having surgery. I wanted to help my mom, so I told her I would go to the cafeteria and get her a turkey melt. That way she wouldn't have to leave Grampy's side. And I— I— I guess I took a wrong turn or something. Oh, I wasn't expecting to see _dead bodies_ today!"

She buried her face in her hands as she sobbed. She hoped Troy would not inquire as to why she had worn her schoolbag on a trip down to the cafeteria before she sensed movement.

"Those poor people!" she said, voice muffled.

Troy spoke up. Obviously having leveled himself with Fern, his voice was coming from right in front of her.

"Hey, hey…shhh…hey, sweetie, it's _okay_. Do you hear me? It's all right. Don't worry. There aren't even any dead— There's nothing…behind those doors right now. We're empty at the moment."

Fern gave a loud ostentatious sniffle, rubbing her eyes with her fingers.

"Really?"

"Really. Totally empty. It's not sad or scary, just boring."

One more loud sniff.

"That's good."

"Listen…you got a little lost, that's all. If you'll pay attention, I'll tell you exactly how to get to the cafeteria. It's really easy to get there, not far from here at all."

"Okay, as long as you promise it's easy."

"I swear it. Now, all you have to do is take a left out of here and get on the B elevators. Not the A elevators. That means you've gone too far. Stop at the B ones, okay? Then you get on the elevator and press the button that has a G on it. You'll go up one stop, and when the doors open, you're right there at the cafeteria."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Well, that _is_ easy. Thanks. I'm sorry I disturbed you," she added sheepishly.

"Don't you worry about that, okay?" said Troy as he straightened up. "Just try to pay attention to where you're going. You could get into some big trouble if you don't. Now, you go and help your mommy out. She's lucky to have a nice little girl like you."

Fern nodded at Troy as she clutched the balloon and her phone to her chest again. She turned and scampered out of the morgue, sniffling from the traumatic experience all the way to the elevators. As the elevator doors closed, ready to haul her back up to ground level, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her denim jacket and smiled a watery-yet-satisfied smile as she dropped the act.

_Brava!_ she congratulated herself.

Minutes later, Fern sat on a bench outside the fragrance shop, scribbling down everything she could remember about her trip to the morgue in her _Danger Girl_ notebook, a spiral-bound five-subject with a green cover in honor of Kelly, her protagonist. Thanks to her ungrounding and limited word processor time, most of her newest work in progress was within the confines of this notebook, but Fern hoped to type it all down soon. No longer needing the balloon, she had left it behind at the hospital, tied to a railing outside a patient's room. It was too chilly to be sitting here, really, and she was getting a headache from all the perfume she had applied to her clothes and bags, but it was worth it. What was a little pain and discomfort when stacked against the incredible experience she had today? An even trade, if you asked her. She was describing the morgue's giant metal claw when her phone rang inside her jacket pocket.

It was her mother.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Fernie, dear!"

Her mother had been in a good mood lately, ever since Fern landed the role of Marian in Mill Creek Middle's fall production of _The Music Man_. She sounded exceptionally cheerful today, excited even.

"I need you to come home right away. I have something for you and I cannot wait for you to see it!"

A gift for her? That was curious. What on earth could it be? Fern did not think she would be lucky enough for her mother to buy her a laptop. Nevertheless, she was intrigued.

Fern entered her home approximately twenty minutes later. Though she had taken multiple shortcuts, she owed the speed and ease with which she ran to all the training she had been doing in preparation for her hike up Raccoon Hill. Jenna had assumed Fern was goofing off when she showed up for a jog donning her hiking boots and a fully-loaded backpack.

"Are you crazy?" Jenna had asked as they warmed up.

"No, just in training," Fern had said simply before sprinting off and leaving Jenna behind on the sidewalk.

"For what?" Jenna called after her. "The Marines?"

She had built up her speed and stamina. When she paid Van Houten Farms a visit, she wanted the journey up the wooded hillside to be as quick and easy as possible so she would have more time to take in the farmhouse and the land on which it sat. She progressed from sidewalks to grassy fields, from grassy fields to small hills, to bigger hills, and bigger hills still. The run home through alleys and backyards was nothing now. Fern did not even break a sweat.

She was intercepted by her mother as soon as she walked through the front door.

"Oh, Fernie!" she said, stopping short to wave a hand in front of her nose. "Go easier on the perfume or you'll put people off! I'm so glad you're finally here. You are not going to believe what I found for you."

Her mother guided her by the arm toward the sofa and urged her to have a seat.

"And close your eyes, dear. I want to get the full effect."

Fern did as she was told and closed her eyes as her mother disappeared out of the living area for a few seconds, retrieving whatever it was she had thought Fern would love so dearly. Fern could not help feeling a little embarrassed to be doing this. Maybe it was a laptop after all. There was rustling as her mother came back into the room. There was also the unmistakable sound of a zipper unzipping.

"Okay! Open them up and get a look at this!"

Fern opened her eyes and was confused. Her mother was holding a dress, a long, satiny magenta one with a flowing skirt. That was not the confusing part. The confusing part was why her mother had bought it for her.

"Isn't it gor—oh? What's wrong?"

Her mother's face fell when she clapped eyes on Fern, disappointed her daughter was not giving the reaction for which she had hoped.

"You don't like it?" she said, worry in her voice.

"I…don't understand it," Fern said flatly.

"Why…honey…it's a dress. It's your dress!"

"What for?'

It was hitting her. She was not stupid. Part of Fern wondered if the reason she had not immediately been able to comprehend the situation was because her brain was trying to reject the idea. She had a strong suspicion as to what her mother's answer was going to be, and if it was the answer she anticipated, she knew she was not going to like it.

"It's for the Autumn Ball. Isn't it just the loveliest thing? I bought it from Mabel Jenkins. Her daughter attended a semi-formal at that private school in Belmont last year, and when she showed me the pictures, I knew you needed it. I think it suits you to a T. Of course, we'll need to have it altered, which is why I needed you to come home as soon as possible. We're going to Flora Stubblefield's house. Fantastic seamstress—she'll have this altered for you in plenty of time for the dance. But we need to hurry! I'll just grab my jacket."

"There's no need to rush, Mom," Fern said.

"There certainly is. We—"

"Mom, please. You don't have to. Call Mabel and ask for a refund. Or sell it at Care to Wear. I don't plan on going to the Autumn Ball."

Her mother looked back at her as if she had spoken a foreign language.

"What do you mean you don't plan on going to the Autumn Ball, Fernie?"

"I mean I lack the interest that would give me the motivation to attend such an event."

Her mother blinked.

"In other words, I don't want to."

"What? Why?"

"Because I just don't want to? What other reason do I need?"

"How about a better reason than 'I don't want to'? This is your eighth-grade year, honey. The last one spent in middle school. You should want to experience everything. Otherwise you might regret it."

Fern had a feeling she would regret the Autumn Ball if she did experience it. She did not feel up to going to a dance where people would be happy, surrounding her, and she did not want to see Buster and Ladonna, who were likely going as a couple. She got enough of that at lunch and at rehearsals, and she saw no reason why she would ever want to subject herself to such imagery of her own free will. She did not want to subject herself to it by her mother's will, either.

"I'm going to be perfectly fine."

Her mother placed her hands on her hips, the magenta dress hanging at her side and dragging the floor.

"Why are you being so standoffish all of a sudden?"

"I'm not being standoffish, Mom."

"You were doing so well. What changed?"

_The boy I like, the boy I was thinking about asking to the Autumn Ball, has a girlfriend now, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it._

She had plenty of time to step up, to tell him how she felt. Buster could be so dense sometimes. Why had she ever thought sitting back and letting him take the hints, letting him make the move was a viable option? But in swooped Ladonna, and she had taken Buster from her with ease. No one would want to be reminded of that for three straight hours. She could not explain this to her mother, of course. Her mother did not understand anything Fern felt, so why should this be any different?

"I just don't want to go, that's all. I'm allowed not to like certain things."

"Fern…" her mother said, and Fern knew she was ramping up to some next-level rabid nonsense only a social butterfly like her mother could comprehend. "You are the lead in the fall musical. You are so smart and talented. Don't you want a perfect, well-rounded year? Don't you want to make memories with your classmates, take lots of pictures and show them off?"

"Not really. I don't see why a silly school dance makes that much of a difference in the long run. I'm not going. I'm sorry you bought the dress for nothing."

Fern got up to leave, but she never made it out of the room.

"You will go," her mother said, and Fern froze for the second time today.

"You can't make me go to a school dance," she said, whirling around, feeling braver than perhaps she should have.

"Can't I?" Her mother's tone was growing more dangerous by the second. "As I remember, Fern Victoria, you're still on thin ice for that little stunt you pulled on Ivy Drive."

She was referring to the time a few weeks back when she helped Buster break into his former childhood home.

"Make that the little _crime_ you pulled, young lady. You honestly didn't think I'd forget that, that I'd let you get off scot-free? What kind of mother would I be if I didn't try to teach you a lesson?"

Fern wanted to tell her what kind of mother she was, but her thoughts were interrupted.

"Wait—you were waiting for the Autumn Ball to come around just so you could punish me with it?"

"No, I'm going to make you do some volunteer work for your punishment. You're going to work at the food pantry and help them gear up for Christmas, and you're going to help write Christmas cards for the JROTC drive. I've already signed you up."

The card drive was Ladonna's thing. Buster would likely be there as well. This couldn't get much worse.

"And now I think I'll add the Autumn Ball to your itinerary. You need to get out and socialize, be a part of your school. It'll be good for you. I think you'll learn a valuable lesson if you just try new things."

This was absolutely unbelievable.

"M- Mom—" she stammered.

"You will _go_ , Fern, and that's final. Get in the car."

Fern fell quiet during the ride to Flora Stubblefield's house. It was not that she did not want to cry or protest; she figured either of those things could land her in even more trouble. Her energy would just be wasted anyway. Instead, she chose to channel that energy, that seething anger at this injustice, into figuring out how she was going to get out of going to the Autumn Ball. Standing on top of an ottoman in the horrible gown her mother had selected, as Flora, an ancient poodle woman circled her with a measuring tape and pincushion shaped like a hedgehog, the wheels in Fern's head began turning. She thought back to parents' night, when her mother lamented over not being able to chaperone the dance. She had said that she would be at a realtor expo that weekend, which meant she would be out of town. That meant her father would be in town, and he would be left in charge, and that would afford Fern a lot of opportunities.

_Good._

Fern decided that she would not attend the Autumn Ball, no matter what her mother's final word was. Oh, she would put on a nice show for her mother. She would wear the nightmare gown, allow her father to take lots of pictures of her big smile, and walk through the doors of the MCM gym, maybe even with a date on her arm. But that did not mean she planned to stick around for the festivities. And she would not. That was her final word.

_To be continued..._


	2. The Noob's Guide

"Muffy, wait up!"

It was Thursday afternoon, and Francine was calling after her. Final bell had rung minutes ago, and Muffy was nearly at the limo's door. She looked up from her Infinity and turned to see her best friend jogging toward her, her expression pinched with discomfort. She need not run. Muffy was waiting on Alan so they could ride to the Crosswire estate together for their Thursday tutoring session. From previous experience with the look on Francine's face, Muffy knew what was coming, and she quickly ducked inside the cabin and grabbed a bottle of Evian from the mini fridge—Francine hated Perrier—and ducked out.

"Midol?" Muffy said sympathetically as she held the water out to Francine in time with her approach.

Francine grabbed the Evian, and Muffy sifted through her handbag in search of her toiletries kit.

"Yes, or else I don't know how the hell I'm going to make it through rehearsal."

"That bad, huh?"

Francine twisted the bottle cap off and said thoughtfully, "You know that movie with the Chestburster alien? It's kind of like that, only this little guy is trying to chew its way out of my uterus."

"Casual," Muffy said after a brief pause at the description. She handed over the pain reliever she had taken from a cream-white Saint Laurent pouch.

She watched as Francine desperately fumbled to open the medicine and downed a dose with several gulps of water. Distraction got the better of her, and she was already reaching into her bag to recover her Infinity. She had exercised great restraint throughout the school day, but now she needed to know.

_Duh_ , she told herself. _If you can't look at your phone during school, neither can anyone else._

Besides, if someone wanted to ask her, why had they not simply approached her in person during lunch or in the halls?

_That would make more sense. But still…_

Muffy could not help herself. She opened Facebook first, answering the Study Buddy question that blocked the prog with stunning ease. Tutoring really was paying off. Francine carried on complaining, but she was fading off into the distance as Muffy concentrated.

"Being a girl sucks a big one. Why do we have to put up with stuff like this?"

"I don't know," Muffy offered halfheartedly as she scanned her notifications, disappointed with what she saw, "something about a snake and an apple…"

"What's up?" Francine said, snapping her fingers in front of Muffy's face. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"Is it Chip?"

"No."

"Your dad?"

" _No_ , Francine."

"Then what?"

"You'll just think it's stupid."

"Oh, it's about the Autumn Ball," said Francine with a nod.

"Well…" Muffy said, dropping her voice and trying her best not to whine as students filed past them down the sidewalk, "its nine days from now and…not a single boy has asked me to go with him. I would have figured at least four would have by now, but _zero_? _Why?_ What's wrong with me?"

"Do you have an hour for me to explain?"

"I'm serious, Francine. Buster has a freaking girlfriend, and I can't get a date for a couple of hours? Something legit has to be wrong."

"Why do they have to come to _you_? If it's so important to you, be a little progressive and ask one of _them_ out."

"And look desperate?"

_Not to mention it opens me up to possibly getting turned down. No. Just no._

"You sound pretty desperate to me…" Francine said, suppressing a grin.

Francine was clearly enjoying herself. She had no idea how stressful this was. She would not, of course. She had done nothing but dismiss the Autumn Ball since hearing of its existence. Despite this, she was still lucky. If by some miracle she were interested in going, she had an automatic date in Arthur, just waiting in the wings for her, even if Francine refused to accept it.

"Why don't you ask Alan this afternoon?" Francine continued. "He'd be an easy mark, and he'll be at your house, so he can't run away."

Muffy was not sure how much of Francine's comment had been a joke and how much had been sincere. She was nevertheless appalled by it.

"I can't do _that_!"

She had nearly added "to him" to the end of her protest, but she stopped herself short. Her attitude caught Francine's attention, and she gave Muffy a quizzical look.

"Why? What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Muffy said quickly, defensively. "Nothing's _wrong_ with Alan. It's just…"

_He's trying to heal from the death of his girlfriend on top of dealing with his other issues, and asking him to go to a place where couples will be dancing and having fun just to make me feel better about myself would make me the worst person_ ever _. That's all._

"…he's my tutor, and I can't risk things getting awkward. I'm _so_ close to winning my wager with Daddy. I can taste my permanent freedom."

Francine thought for a moment.

"Jeez. I guess when you put it that way… Hang in there. There's still time for someone to ask you. In the meantime, you go crush that wager. Thanks for the meds!"

Francine took off, presumably heading to musical rehearsal, and Muffy turned her attention back to her Infinity. She should get in the limo and out of the chill, but just as soon as she checked her texts. She had no notifications, but it would not hurt to check, in case one slipped by.

"Uh-oh, is Study Buddy acting up again? I thought I worked out all the kinks."

Muffy looked up to see a concerned Alan staring back at her as he slipped the straps of his overstuffed schoolbag off his shoulders.

"Hi," she said, putting the Infinity's screen to sleep and slipping it into her coat pocket. "No, Study Buddy is fine. I was just checking some things. The Autumn Ball is in nine days and—"

"I know," Alan said in a tone that was equal parts soft and defensive, "and before you say anything, I don't know if I'll feel like going, and—not that I don't value your concern—I'd appreciate it if you please didn't try to persuade me to go 'for my own good'."

It was all Muffy could do not to cringe at her past behavior.

"Ohmigosh, Alan, I wouldn't dream of it… I know you're doing your best, trying to ease back into life again and stuff. The Autumn Ball is a huge social event for MCM, and it's more than reasonable that you might want to sit something like that out. Deciding if showing up would be good for you isn't my call to make. Totally. Besides, sometimes, you're just not going to feel like doing something, and that has to be okay."

Alan gaped at her for a split second before making the effort to close his mouth.

"Um, yeah," he said. "Exactly the points I was going to stress. Thanks for…thanks for understanding. But why did you bring it up?"

"Oh, no reason. I was just commenting that it's coming up pretty fast. _Quickly._ Coming up pretty quickly. I guess I've been so busy I've just lost track of time."

There was no way she was going to complain about this to him. Compared to his problems, this was trivial.

How would he even respond? _Gee, that's too bad, Muffy. You can't get a date? My girlfriend is dead and it has crippled me even further emotionally, but sorry about your luck._ She would need to be more mindful of what she said around him. She only wished she had realized that weeks ago.

She wanted to ask Alan how he was feeling, if his medicine was working, but she needed to be mindful about bringing his condition up too often. The last thing she wanted Alan to think was that she was only interested in his illness or progression, plus, mentioning it too much could affect him negatively in general. She had learned so much over the past few days, but figuring out the right way to handle Alan was still a fine line to walk. He looked to her for friendship and safety, a fact that still astounded her. And she did not want to screw things up.

"Yeah," said Alan. "Time is fascinating. Are you ready? I've got a new side project for you; one I think you'll find helpful."

Muffy smiled, resisting the urge to reach for her phone again.

"Let's get to it."

They had only been in the Crosswire library long enough to set up for the afternoon before Muffy had given in once again.

"Before we start," she said to Alan, who was going over some notes he had jotted down during Monday's session, "I really need to visit the bathroom."

"No problem," Alan said, not looking up. "You'll want to concentrate on the tasks at hand instead of other things. Go ahead."

How right he was. Muffy dashed to a washroom down the hallway and took out her Infinity, which she had deftly smuggled from her coat to the pocket of her cardigan. Alan still did not approve of phones during sessions, so there would be no way to stay on top of things for the next couple of hours. She had resisted the urge to look on the ride home, too. It had been a short trip, but it only took a second to press SEND on a message, if a boy wanted to send her one. The suspense was killing her. No phone calls, no texts. Nerves caused her to miss the first Study Buddy question, and she pulled it together long enough to answer the second one correctly and get through to Facebook. Nothing. She continued, answering Study Buddy questions and searching her social media, hoping that one boy, just one, had finally reached out to her, only to have her hopes dashed.

* * *

"I do hope you enjoy the chai, Master Powers," said Bailey as he placed the cozy-covered teapot down in the middle of the library's long table. "It is an autumn favorite of Miss Muffy's. I shall be happy, of course, to bring you a different beverage should you not find it suitable."

"I like chai a lot, actually," said Alan, placing his notebook down. "Thanks, Bailey. Um, could I get some honey and half-and-half, please?"

"Certainly," said Bailey, and the butler was out of the room in no time, on his way to fetch Alan's request.

Alan checked his watch. Was it just him, or had Muffy spent an inordinate amount of time out of the library? He had not taken notice of the time when she had left. Deciding that what she was doing was none of his business, he instead chose to examine the snacks on the table, the teapot sitting next to a small selection of finger sandwiches and a couple of tiny coconut custard tarts on a tiered silver tray. Next to that sat china cups and saucers, and honest-to-goodness linen napkins. Muffy went all out for even the simplest activities. His popcorn and mango drink seemed exceedingly pedestrian in comparison.

Alan smiled as he took everything in. As he did so, something in the distance caught his eye. The bright orange corner of a book was sticking out just beyond the open top of Muffy's schoolbag. That was interesting. He knew of no such text from MCM with that color. Even though he shared not a single class with Muffy, he was familiar with her syllabus and textbooks, and he wondered what this new, day-glo addition could possibly be. Intrigued, he rose from his seat and inched over to where Muffy's schoolbag sat atop the table. Sliding the tip of his index finger underneath the stiff nylon, he lifted the bag's opening wider so he could read the title.

_Anxiety: The Complete Noob's Guide to Helping a Loved One Cope_

Alan jerked his hand away as if the bag had burned him. He did not know what kind of book he had expected to find, but it had not been that one. He backed away and sat back down in his chair. This explained Muffy's rhetoric before leaving MCM today. She likely had been parroting something she had read within the book's covers.

As he sat there, his initial thought was, _Am I really that bad?_

Was he so out of hand that Muffy needed a manual to navigate him?

Then another thought occurred to him, and it felt the opposite of how his vicious inner monologue affected his mindset, which was a new and curious feeling indeed. He thought, _Or maybe she cares about you._

Muffy had expressed her frustration with her inexperience when it came to Alan's condition. Maybe she had sought out a way to remedy that. Alan recalled the days when getting Muffy to open up a book and study was like pulling teeth. Now here she was, doing independent study. Of her own free will. And she was doing it to help him. Without announcing it to him, without complaint, she was doing it for him. And there was something about the notion he found unexpectedly overwhelming, and he fought the urge to tear up.

Muffy returned, and Bailey brought in the honey and half and half, each housed in small silver pots that matched the sandwich tray. Alan pushed past his flustered feelings and commenced the session, stealing tiny moments to stare at his friend whenever Muffy was not looking, trying to temper the warm waves of gratitude and adoration he was feeling for her in the moment.

* * *

George was underneath the Wells Fargo Wagon during rehearsal break, trying to bolt reinforcements for the wagon's tongue into place. He was flat on his back and looking up, thinking about how the last thing they needed during a live performance was for the tongue to snap off as the wagon was only halfway across the stage. He only took notice of Fern's presence when she spoke up.

"George?" Fern said, in a hurried voice.

"Hey, Fern." George's voice bounced hollowly off the wood above him. "What's up?"

He could only see her from the knees down, but she shifted from one foot to the other, as if she might be nervous about something.

"I'm so sorry to have to ask," she said, "but I need a huge, _huge_ favor."

"Sure thing," he said, happy to help.

"If you don't mind, I need you to come to the Autumn Ball with me— _oh!_ "

That was the last thing George heard before seeing stars. He had sat up with lightning speed, forgetting momentarily that he was under a huge and solid structure, and cracked his face on the wagon's reach.

" _George!_ " cried Fern. "Oh my gosh! Are you all right?"

"Ah! Ack! Owww…"

George hissed and groaned as he wriggled his way out from underneath the wagon. His nose burned, his eyes watered, and he could feel the tiny streams of blood as they began trickling from each nostril.

"I'm fine," he said nasally, clamping a hand over his nose.

Fern knelt beside him.

"I don't think so," she said a bit shakily. "Your nose is bleeding."

"Yeah. That's not unusual. Happens all the time."

He shifted his weight and withdrew a red hankie from his back pocket with his free hand. He held it to his nose as Fern helped him stand. She ushered him over to one of the upturned wooden crates upon which he liked to sit.

"I should get Coach Sorrell. She'll get you an ice pack…" she said as she turned to leave.

"No! Don't. I'm going to be fine. What were you saying? About the Autumn Ball? Did I hear you right?"

Fern looked uncertain, but she explained quickly as she knelt beside him again.

"My mom is forcing me to go. Apparently, it's the thing to do if one is an eighth-grader, and she'll believe nothing else. So, I must go. I'm trying to find a date before she makes _that_ decision for me too. I'd rather go with a friend. I don't know what your plans are, and I certainly don't want to ruin your evening, but if it's not too much trouble, would you—"

"Yes!" he blurted out, muffled by the hankie. "Yes. The answer is 'yes'. I'd be happy to, uh, help you out."

"You sure it won't ruin your plans?"

"Nothing is ruined. Nothing is ruined at all. That's what friends are for, right? Besides, I love to dance."

"Uh, right. Okay. As long as you're sure."

"Yep. It's all good," he said heartily.

"Well," said Fern, "fine. It's good to have that out of the way. One less thing to worry about, at any rate."

"Yeah. Good. Fern?"

"What?"

"Do you mind getting an ice pack for me after all? I might have hit my nose harder than I thought."

"Oh, sure! Definitely. Sit tight, and I'll be right back."

Fern rose and left him. After she rounded the corner, George stood calmly, mustered all the energy he had left, and he jumped, clicking his heels together in pure, uninhibited joy. He would have pumped his fist, too, but his first action caused a surge of sharp pain in his nostrils.

"Ow!" he mumbled to himself as he sat back down, groaning and hissing once more.

To George, it was worth the pain. Not only had his wish finally come true, it had not fallen on him to initiate things. Fern had come to him, and that was a wonderful feeling that dwarfed any pain currently affecting him. He just hoped the bruising would clear up in time for the Autumn Ball.

_To be continued..._


	3. Renaissance

Bitzi hurried back into the kitchen Saturday morning after shoving a load of clothes into the washing machine. She would have made it sooner, but she had to double back after setting the cycle to run and almost forgetting to add detergent. Rushing around in the morning on little sleep was the worst. It always ruffled her, which only compounded the situation. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she reached for the skillet's handle. Half past seven already? Of all nights, why had she chosen last night to stay up?

_You know why. It's your fault, and you didn't even accomplish anything. Honestly, if you'd just say something, you'd probably sleep a lot better. Or at least wake up on time._

Just saying something was proving to be more difficult than it should have been, however; and now her poor choices had caused her to sleep nearly forty minutes through her alarm, and she and Buster were both running behind. If only her son were better at getting up with the first alarm rather than hitting the snooze button repeatedly, perhaps he could have saved her this morning. As if choreographed, Bitzi whirled around, skillet in hand, in time with Buster skidding to a halt and having a seat at the breakfast table, where he draped his jacket over his lap like the world's largest, bulkiest napkin.

"Normally, I'd tell you to take your time chewing, hon, but…" she said in a forced, joking manner as she scraped the bacon and scrambled eggs onto his plate in a fashion that was less tidy than usual. She placed the pan back onto the dead burner and grabbed the slices that had just popped up from the toaster, tossing them one at a time to Buster, who caught each piece with the hand that was not shoveling food into his mouth. "Mrs. Read is due here any minute. That's really what you're wearing today, huh?"

She should not have been surprised. Buster had an array of odd and outlandish t-shirts, and he chose to wear one most days of the week. Today's selection was particularly bright, a hot pink tee with a cartoon cat on the front. He had once informed her this character was called "Hello Kitty".

Buster shrugged as he wolfed down his breakfast. "Personally, I never thought I'd wear it again," he said around a mouthful of food, "but Ladonna thinks it's funny, so I've gotta dress to impress."

"I see…" Bitzi said, then realized that she had given all the food to Buster without reserving any for herself. Oh, well. Once she made sure he was taken care of and off to rehearsal for the school musical with a full stomach, she would make some oatmeal. And coffee.

"You and dad had coffee again last night?" Buster said, as if he had sensed where her train of thought was heading.

Although there was no counselling on Fridays, they had met up once the workday was over, at Bo's suggestion and against Bitzi's better judgment. She had needed to go to bed at a decent hour, but she had also needed the opportunity to get some things off her chest. The night had been cold, the conversation had been easy, and the real, fully-caffeinated coffee she had so foolishly ordered had been a welcomed evening treat over her usual herbal tea, which typically tasted like hot water and lawn clippings. The coffee had hyped her up way too much, and she had spent half the night lying in bed, thinking about how she had failed yet again.

"Um, yes. We did," she said. It was a harmless question, so why was she beginning to feel flustered? "How did you know?"

"I just figured. You know, when you sent me off with extra Sugar Bowl money and told me not to rush after rehearsal… You don't need to be nervous, Mom. I'm not going to pry. I was just…curious if I was right."

Bitzi patted Buster's shoulder. "Can't get anything past you."

The sound of an engine outside grew closer to the condo. At this hour, it had to be Jane and Arthur. Buster must have heard it too, for he promptly stood and donned his jacket, then grabbed the remaining rasher of bacon and half toast slice, shoving the lot into his mouth and chewing furiously.

"All right, Professor," she said, "See you later? Dinner will be ready when you get home. Have a good rehearsal, and have fun on your little…date thing."

She knew Buster and Ladonna would be joining Arthur and Francine after rehearsal for pizza and bowling.

"You and Ladonna… You make good choices, okay?"

"Awkward advice, Mom," Buster called over his shoulder, making his way toward the front door, "but I love you anyway!"

Bitzi smiled to herself as she began to clear the dishes from the table. Moments later, Buster was calling out.

"Um…Mom?"

"Yes?" she called back.

"It's not Mrs. Read!"

Dropping the flatware onto the plate, she left the kitchen, wondering who was responsible for the idling engine noises that were right outside her home.

"Then who is it?" she said as she approached, her view blocked by her son standing in the open doorway. The engine died as she peered over Buster's shoulder to get a better look.

"I think it's…Dad? But he's… I don't believe it."

Bitzi followed her son outside in stunned silence as she stared on at the man standing astride an older motorbike, parked next to the curb in front of the condo. A helmet obscured his face, but that did not prevent her from recognizing her ex.

"Bo?" she called.

The man took off his helmet. As he did, the still-rising sun glinted off its shiny black surface, and Bitzi held up a hand to shield her eyes from the flare. It was indeed Buster's father.

"Hey, you two!" he called back cheerfully. "Nice morning, isn't it?"

"What on earth…?"

"No way," Buster breathed as he hurried ahead, the first to greet him. "I didn't know you knew how to ride one of these, Dad."

"I didn't," he said, "not until I took some safety courses. What's that on your shirt?"

"Bo?" said Bitzi. "What's all this?"

"I bought a bike," Bo said simply, cradling the helmet under his arm like a football. He was trying to act casual and doing a transparent job of it. In truth, he exuded the giddy aura of a kid on Christmas morning.

"I can see that. You've just never mentioned it any of the times we've…talked."

She could feel Buster's stare. He was paying close attention to their exchange.

"I wasn't going to tell you until it was a done deal. I knew I'd never hear the end of your ribbing if I bailed. And before you ask: no, this isn't my mid-life-crisismobile. It's just a hobby—those things regular, earthbound people have."

"Mid-life-crisismobile…" Bitzi said with a laugh. "Wow. You only beat me by a second or two with that one."

"Isn't she a beaut?" Bo said as she admired the paint job, true blue with a pearl finish. "Honda, 1980, and runs like a top. I finalized the purchase last Thursday morning. Ed connected me with a terrific seller. Anyway, I was thinking of naming her. How does 'Stella' sound?"

"Ed?" said Bitzi. "As in Crosswire?"

"We hit it off at parents' night. Great guy. So, what do you say, kiddo?" Bo said, turning his attention to Buster. "A spin around the block?"

He thew a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a spare helmet anchored down under a cargo net behind the pillion.

"Aw, man," Buster groaned. "I wish I could, but I'm waiting for my ride to play practice."

As if on cue, Jane Read pulled up to the curb and blasted a short, friendly _honk!_ The three Baxters had been so engrossed in Bo's acquisition they had not even noticed the car approaching.

"Maybe later, then," Bo said as he and Bitzi waved back.

Buster flashed them a peace sign as he jogged off to scramble into the backseat. As she pulled away, Jane shot Bitzi a raised eyebrow. Her eyes darted to Bo and the bike, looking him up and down, before returning to Bitzi, accompanied by a questioning expression. She was gone before Bitzi could wordlessly indicate she had no clue what Jane was trying to ask.

"What about you, _jefe_?"

Bitzi looked back to Bo, who held the spare helmet out to her.

"Fancy a ride?"

"Me? Oh, I don't know, Bo… I probably shouldn't."

"I'm pretty capable with Stella, if you're nervous."

"It's not that. I have clothes in the wash and a sink full of dishes, and—"

"And I'd be happy to help take care of them once we get back. Please, Bitz? It won't take long. I have to be in Ingram by noon, so I'm sort of on a schedule too. You deserve a break. Have you even had breakfast?"

"Accidentally gave it to Buster…"

"That just proves my point. You need to slow down."

_I need to sleep better._

She did not want to turn him down. He looked so excited, and she had not been on the back of a bike since college. It sounded like a fun way to grab breakfast on this crisp morning. She wanted to get away, if only briefly, but she needed to get a lot done today. Right now, her needs outweighed her wants.

_You know, you also_ need _to talk to him about certain things. This could be a chance for a do-over on last night_.

"Well, if you're going to beg me…" she joked, "I'll grab my coat."

Minutes later, she sat on the pillion with her arms wrapped around Bo's shoulders as they puttered along, winding their way through the suburbs and into downtown Elwood City. It was chilly for sure, but she felt safe enough. She had not slowed down enough lately to really appreciate how beautiful the city was this time of year, and it was nice to get a look at it from this perspective, a casual observer out for a drive.

Bo pulled over at the open-air market, which was already bustling despite the temperature. They stopped by the bakery for bialys and coffee before Bitzi took him on a tour of the shops and stands. Bo had expressed skepticism as they strolled along, insisting the bialys here could never rival the ones he got in New York but looked impressed upon taking his first bite, and he reluctantly declared it "decent" before devouring the whole thing in one minute. Their feet carried them toward the square as they chatted, their voices growing quieter the farther away they got from the crowd. Now would be a good time to strike up a conversation.

"So, you and Ed Crosswire… You boys hang out often?"

Just as soon as she satisfied her curiosity.

"I wouldn't say 'often'," said Bo. "Might have been over to his house a couple of times. Just conversation and brandy."

"Ooh, look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants. Was it served in crystal snifters?"

"Or maybe it was scotch. And, yes, it was. But he's not really a fancy guy. He didn't come from money, did he?"

"His family has had a successful business in this town since the sixties."

"Not really the same thing as coming from money, though, is it? I figured as much. He seems out of place in that gigantic house. Millicent, though, she's cut from a different cloth. Don't get me wrong, she's lovely, but I get major finishing school vibes from her."

"She was born well off," Bitzi said, "but Ed built pretty much everything he has."

"I forget how much you know about everyone in this town. Any particular reason why she keeps Ed on a leash?"

Now there was some new information.

"Wait—what makes you assume that? What did Millicent do?"

"Oh, you know, nothing like…" Bo made the gesture of cracking a whip. "Nothing she _did_ per se, just the way Ed acts around her, like he lives to serve her. He drops everything he's doing and gives her laser focus. It had a vibe, that's all."

"You and your vibes… Maybe Ed just discovered the key to a successful marriage," Bitzi said, with a laugh. "They have been married for nearly twenty-five years, after all, so they must be doing something right."

"What else do you know about him?"

"He hardly stops. Hasn't for the past few years. He used to be a workaholic, and I guess he still is in a sense, but he's different. A different focus now. He's a lot more generous. A _lot_ more generous. He's begun new business ventures over the years, sure, but in turn, he's given away massive amounts of money. As we were cruising through town, I realized just how much he's responsible for changing around here. The dog park, the computer room at the library, the re-build at the horse rescue, the wheelchair accessible pathway at World's End Park—that was him. That's just the tip of the iceberg, and those are just the things he's done for Elwood City. The road from here to Ingram—Kelsey Snyder Memorial Highway? He had a hand in that, too.

"Was she a relative of his?"

"Ed didn't know Kelsey existed until her father took a swing at him in the middle of lunch a few years back."

Bo stopped and stared at her. "Okay, you can't answer a question like that and not explain further."

"It's an awful story, really. Kelsey died in an auto accident a few years ago, as you've probably guessed. I think it was in two thousand and three. No—two thousand and four. She happened to be driving a car her parents purchased from Crosswire Motors. That's what Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood used to be called. She was driving home, past curfew and on a Friday night, and she ran into the back of a tractor trailer truck that had stopped to make a turn. She was going nearly sixty miles an hour, and she was in a small, fast coupe. I'm sure you can imagine the damage. She was only sixteen."

Bo winced. "That's terrible," he said. "That poor girl. But why would it matter that she was driving a Crosswire Motors vehicle? Unless… No. You're not telling me there was something faulty with her car?"

"That's…where it gets a little crazy. The Snyders, Frank and Claudia, certainly seemed to think so. Frank confronted Ed while he and Millicent were dining at Café con Leche and accused him of selling them a defective car, claiming it killed their daughter. Frank caused a big scene, and then he threw a punch at Ed, but it didn't land. Ed ducked it. Not sure if it was quick reflexes or if he had that much experience dealing with angry customers. A few restaurant patrons pitched in, helped remove Frank from the café as he was kicking and screaming."

"Man… So, was the car faulty?"

"There was no evidence whatsoever to support Snyder's claim. There were no eye witnesses, and Nick Harding, the driver of the truck, said all he knew was that he saw Kelsey's headlights coming right for him in his mirrors, and she didn't seem to make an effort to stop. There was an investigation, of course. Ed did his due diligence, too, and launched his own investigation. He contacted the car manufacturer, checked for recall notices and complaints on the model. He even backtracked the car's previous ownership and repair history, just to be sure there was nothing unusual and that he hadn't missed something. And it checked out, which was lucky for him because Crosswire Motors didn't always have the cleanest track record. But he was thorough. Everyone was very thorough."

"And?"

Bo looked to be on the edge of his seat, even though they were still walking. They were circling the fountain in the square, which Ed Crosswire had also paid for.

"It was concluded that the accident was Kelsey's fault," said Bitzi. "The most damning evidence was her cell phone. She had been in the middle of texting a friend when the accident happened. It sat in her phone, unfinished and unsent, and her last sent text was timestamped two minutes prior to the accident. It was a tragic case of distracted driving and nothing more."

"Wow. Did the evidence come to light after Frank took a shot at Ed?"

"Before."

"He couldn't accept the truth or something?"

"The Snyders never attempted a lawsuit, so it's anyone's guess. Maybe he needed someone else to blame, to make sense why his little girl was taken away from him. Your mind can go to crazy places after the loss of a child. I know I don't have to tell you that."

"Wow," he said again.

"Regardless of his innocence, Ed must have felt sympathy for the Snyders. He tried to do as much as he could for them, apart from the highway dedication. It's not common knowledge, but he paid for Kelsey's funeral expenses, even after Frank Snyder refused his money. Official word is that the funeral home received an anonymous donation, but…"

"You have a reliable source."

Bitzi said nothing but removed a hand from her warm coffee cup to tap the side of her nose.

"Since the run-in with Snyder, he's changed. I'm only speculating, but it's awfully suspicious timing with the Crosswire renaissance that happened around town, and now Ed's the closest thing we have to a superhero."

"With his kind of money," said Bo thoughtfully, "I guess it beats having a supervillain on your hands. Do you know what this reminds me of, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way?"

"What's that?"

"When you used to give me the scoop. Do you remember that?"

He was referring to the evenings they would relax on the sofa in their old home. Bo would sometimes play something mellow on the Thorens, and they would unwind and catch up. Bitzi would fill him in on the dirtiest gossip she was at liberty to discuss, usually revolving around whichever story she was investigating at the time, or she would give him a rundown of her encounter with one of her various sleazy contacts. And Bo would hang on her every word.

"Oh, I remember, all right," she said.

"I'm just talking about the familiarity of it, you know. I feel like I've got my own personal x-ray machine on this town. I haven't been this hooked by a conversation in a while, and the company isn't half bad either."

"Aw, shucks, Bo. I understand what you mean."

_It does feel familiar. Easy._

When things were not tense between them, talking with Bo was easy. It had been easy since the day they first met. It pained her to have to steer the conversation into more personal, pertinent territory.

"I need to tell you something."

"Yeah?" said Bo.

"'Stella' is a pretty great name for a motorcycle," she said with a smile.

Bo's curious expression relaxed, and he smiled too.

Later. She would tell him later. She was enjoying herself too much at the moment.

_To be continued…_


	4. Luster

Fern's bad morning began with her mother, as her bad mornings so often did. Certainly, her mother must have thought her question was a perfectly fine and innocent one. That was the problem, though, was it not? Her mother thought of Fern as a doll in a dollhouse, something to be moved around from room to room, from place to place, rather than a person with thoughts and feelings, wants and wishes, and her question had been a prime example of that mentality.

Friday night had been a late one as Fern worked on _Danger Girl_ at her desktop in the dark. She sat as still as she could, tapping the keys as lightly as possible, so her mother would not be able to detect any noise should she be awake and roaming the upstairs hallway. The adjustments slowed her down, but she had nonetheless been productive. More than that, she had been in the moment. It had pained her when, upon glimpsing the clock in the lower right corner of her screen and seeing that it was well past three in the morning, she realized it was time to peel herself away from her story, to disentangle herself from her protagonist and the mystery she was unravelling. And she had just gotten to the good part, in which Kelly was reluctantly revisiting an abandoned warehouse on a stormy night, the exact spot where her boyfriend had gone missing, only to discover a wet boot print and realize she was not alone.

Now she sat at the breakfast table, lazily eating her sausage and frozen Belgian waffle, which had been heated in the toaster oven and slathered with peanut butter. She waded through the sleepy fog that lingered in her head and tried to remember exactly where she had left off in her story, when her mother asked her out of nowhere.

"You know, Fernie," she said as she stood at the coffee maker, pouring herself a cup slowly so as not to splash any on her beige pantsuit, "if you don't want to go to the Autumn Ball alone, I think I know of someone who would be a perfect little companion for you."

_What?_

Was this really happening? When she had asked George to the Autumn Ball, it had been out of necessity, part of selling the act. She needed a date to make her compliance as believable as possible, but she also needed someone agreeable. George was sweet and accommodating, and he was most likely to forgive her when she left him alone at the ball for a while, because she would be leaving, no question. And he was her friend; she could trust him not to tell. Only the tiniest part of her believed her mother might try to select a date for her, but it had not been a huge concern. But here she was, actually meddling.

"Caroline Philips has a son," her mother continued. "Bentley. Or maybe it's Brody… Anyway, he's a sixth-grader at Mighty Mountain. Quite a handsome boy, and…"

_She doesn't even know the kid's name. And a_ sixth-grader _? Really?_

Fern's fingernails dug into her knee under the table. She wanted to stand up and tell her mother to leave her alone, but she could not.

_It's going to be fine. Remember your motivation: You've been beaten and, not only are you going with the flow, you're actually beginning to come around to the idea of attending the Autumn Ball. Perhaps you were just being a silly sourpuss, not wanting to attend the grand event of the semester. You really can be a dolt sometimes._

At least, that was what her mother had to believe. She left for the realtor expo next weekend, and Fern wanted to send her off with complete confidence that her daughter just might have the time of her life between being dropped off outside the MCM gymnasium and being picked up at the end of the afternoon. Arguing over something pointless like Bentley or Brody would not help convince her.

_Besides, that particular base is covered, so just wait for her to shut up and tell her what she wants to hear._

"Of course, I'll have to check with Caroline first, but I don't think it should be a problem. What do you think?"

"Thanks, but I already have a date."

"You _do_?"

_Well, don't sound so shocked._ "Yes. George asked me Thursday."

Telling her George asked her to the ball instead of the other way around made Fern seem more desirable, which her mother was sure to appreciate.

"Since I'm already going, I thought 'why not?'"

"Ingrid Lundgren's son…" her mother said softly, sounding impressed.

"George is big on dancing. In fact, there's a long-running debate among the school whether he's a better dancer than Binky Barnes."

"Oh?"

Another hit. It would thrill her mother to know that, not only did her daughter have a date, but her date was exceptional in some way. A social merit badge she could sew onto her imaginary sash. Now, to be more conversational…

"I suppose it's a good thing I've been running a lot lately," Fern said. "I need to stay prepared for all the legwork I'll be doing next Saturday. But even then, I'm sure I'll look incompetent next to someone as good as George."

She would be doing a lot of legwork, but it would have nothing to do with dancing. Her mother gave her a fleeting sympathetic frown.

"Oh, now don't say that. After all, if you couldn't dance, you wouldn't have gotten the lead in a musical that required so much of it, now would you?"

Given that Coach Sorrell had chosen her for the lead over Francine, who not only wanted the role but was a better singer and gave a better audition, Fern had to wonder if dancing prowess mattered that much either. Before she could think of a response to her mother's challenge, her father had entered the kitchen, glossy red travel mug in hand, and Fern was grateful for the interruption.

"Back for round two," he said jovially as he waggled the mug, but his weak eyes and thin smile betrayed his weariness.

Her father had returned home on a red-eye Thursday morning after a long trade show week in Las Vegas, and he still looked beat. He had insisted on taking her to rehearsal this morning, even though he probably should not have left bed. As he refilled the travel mug, her mother rose to tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"You're sure you're up for this?" she asked him, looking doubtful.

"Absolutely," he said. He tightened the screw-on cap as he made his way over to Fern. "I've gone a whole week without seeing my Fern, and we've got some catching up to do. Ready to go, honey?"

He was ruffling her hair, smiling fondly at her, and Fern wished he were the parent who was home most often. The fact that he was not sent a small, aching ripple through her chest.

"I am. Just a sec—" Fern told him before shoving the last forkful of waffle into her mouth.

She stood and reached for her gray bag, which was in the chair next to hers, and her heart stopped when she nearly dropped it. She recovered the straps quickly and acted natural as she shouldered the bag, trying not to think about what might have happened if it had upended. Her parents might have been curious to know why she had a pair of thick boot socks, fingerless gloves, and scissors with her. Her plan to escape the Autumn Ball was already in motion, but it required careful, tiny steps—a pair of socks and some scissors here, a length of ribbon and her newly-curated lockpick kit there—day by day. By the time she left her hiking boots behind in her dressing room next Friday and wore her gym sneakers home instead, everything she needed would be smuggled into MCM, waiting for her on Saturday. In an instant, in one false move, she had nearly ruined everything. It was funny how sometimes that was all it took to bring everything crashing down. Thankfully, she lived to fight another day.

* * *

Several students were running late for rehearsal this morning, which was not unexpected for an extracurricular weekend event. The auditorium buzzed with Saturday energy as the cast and crew, by and large, were unable to stay still. Coach Sorrell, who had dressed casually today but still maintained her classic black style in leggings and a slouchy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, took turns between glancing over her roll sheet and checking her watch.

Sue Ellen had sat in the house seats with Fern and chatted for a few minutes before excusing herself and leaving to talk to a confused-looking Francine, who was setting up her station in the back row, where she would be able to conduct interviews for her _Frensky Star_ piece in a quieter environment during breaks. Fern was not in today's lineup. She would be one of the last cast members to be interviewed next week, which was curious. Buster, the other lead, had been Francine's third interview. Fern held onto her script, a formality at this point since she knew her lines verbatim. As she pondered what sort of questions Francine might ask her, Fern's eyes glazed over the lines of dialogue until the letters became blurry. A pair of slim, blue-jeaned legs and a bright pink shirttail came into view behind the pages, disrupting her thoughts, and she looked up to see Buster.

"Yo, what up?" he said as he took the seat next to her.

He looked happy, but it was strange to see him without Ladonna glued to his hip. She was among the ones running late, and Buster looked practically naked without her. Not unlike certain celebrity couples, there was even a mashup nickname for the two of them going around school: "Luster". Fern had no idea who started it, but if she were to bet money, she would put it on Muffy. It gave her cold chills every time she heard someone utter it. There was about as much luster to those two as there was to a muddy elephant's skin.

"Good morning," Fern said politely.

She had to be polite. The last time she had given Buster the cold shoulder, he had hounded her for ages, wanting to know why. Never mind the fact that, had he just figured it out for himself, Luster might not even exist. Had he figured it out, the student body might be talking about Bern instead. Now she genuinely wanted little to do with him instead of merely pretending.

"So, have you thought about it?" he said in a low voice.

"About what?"

What had been the subject of their last conversation? Fern struggled to remember. They talked so little these days.

"About Raccoon Hill? You never told me when you wanted to go."

Buster still wanted to go? That was news to Fern. She figured he was so lost in Ladonna Land that he had forgotten all about Van Houten Farms even if she, Fern, had not.

"Oh… I don't know, Buster," she lied, "but I probably won't be going anytime soon."

"Really? You sounded anxious to go there."

"' _Eager'_ , you mean," she said. "The more I thought about it, the more I decided that it's getting too cold. It would probably be best to wait until spring, if I go at all."

Buster looked as if he were thinking it over and ultimately disagreed with her.

"Oh, okay. It's just…everything is dying off right now. Plants and stuff. I would've thought it would be easier to travel now instead of when it starts growing back. But I guess you know what you're doing."

Yes, she did, which is why she would be travelling to Van Houten Farms Saturday afternoon, while Buster, Ladonna, and everyone else danced to Chris Brown songs and sipped punch at the Autumn Ball. But Buster did not need to know that. No one did. If she had it her way, no one would.

"Just hit me up when you decide you do want to go, okay?"

"Buster, you don't have to go with me."

"I want to," he insisted. "I'm kind of hyped about it. Plus, it's probably safer if you travel with a buddy. You never know what's out there. It could be dangerous."

"Yeah, but—"

"Just say you will. You've done so much for me—I'd like to help you out with a project. Thanks to you, my parents are…well, I wish I had more time to explain…"

Distracted, Buster looked toward the back of the house. Fern turned in her seat and saw Ladonna waving at Buster as she trotted down the aisle.

"I owe you _everything_ , Fern," he said before dashing off to meet Ladonna halfway.

Fern stared after him.

_You couldn't possibly mean that._

_To be continued…_


	5. Double Date

"Okay, Compson, he's alone," Francine said. The two girls, along with Arthur, looked on as Buster stood in front of Bowl City's snack counter, watching from their lane as the boy placed an order for nachos despite dining on pizza half an hour ago. "Time to put up or shut up."

"What are ya talkin' about?" Ladonna said, an incredulous waiver in her voice as her wide eyes darted to Francine then back to Buster. "This wasn't _my_ idea. And who said I had to do it right now?"

The quartet had left for Pizza Paula's as soon as the grueling five-hour rehearsal ended. Once settled, relaxed, and their hunger satisfied, it was clear that one subject and one subject only occupied Buster's mind:

"Mom and Dad had coffee again last night," he said cheerily after inhaling his first slice. "They've been doing that a lot lately. Just hanging out. And talking on the phone. Like it's no big deal."

The others barely got a word in, and whenever an attempt was made to discuss a different topic, Buster always brought it back to his mother and father, as if he had not even been paying attention to them and chose instead to voice his thoughts.

"Dad has dinner with us a couple nights a week, sort of a new routine for us… Sometimes Mom shows him how to cook things and sends him home with recipes. Nothing too complicated, but I think he actually likes learning. He's home every night now, and I think that's why he never _got_ cooking before… Thanksgiving is gonna be _weird_ , but good, you know…? I'm willing to bet money he took Mom for a ride on Stella. That's what he called his motorcycle. Dad was really proud of Stella, and I could tell he was dying to show her off… Wouldn't it be great if they got back together…? I'm not saying they _will_. Just, wouldn't it be great?"

"Um, yeah," Arthur said. He looked uncomfortable to be put on the spot, but Buster did not seem to notice. "That would be great, Buster."

When Buster walked away, leaving the table for the restroom, Francine said in a low voice, "Would you look at that? He's so happy. I'm kind of worried about him."

"Me too," said Arthur. "I'm glad his parents are getting along, and I'm glad _he's_ glad about it, but…you know how obsessed he can get."

"Yeah," said Francine, sighing deeply, "I know. He's living in a dreamworld, and he's going to keep dozing if he doesn't get a wakeup call and soon. Sucks to rain on his parade, but someone needs to step the eff in."

Arthur and Francine stared at each other intensely before inspiration seemed to hit them at the same time, and they turned to look directly at Ladonna. Ladonna, who had plucked a pepperoni from her slice, paused with it halfway to her mouth.

"What are ya lookin' at me for?" she said.

" _Because_ ," Francine said, as if the answer were obvious, "you're his girlfriend now. It's your duty to keep him in check, part of your job."

"Keep him in check? Sounds a little sexist, if ya ask me."

"Okay, then," said Francine, "be his better half. How does that sound? You should have his ear. You're close."

"I dunno about that," Ladonna said. "I mean, I haven't even kissed him on the lips yet."

"TMI," said Arthur, making a timeout signal with his hands.

"It's really not," Francine said to him. "Come on, Compson. You have to tell Buster, for his own good and for our peace of mind."

"Why can't it be one of y'all? You're his best friends, plus you've known him a lot longer."

"Normally I would be the one to set him straight," Francine said. "I mean, if Arthur wusses out first. But I can also be a blunt A-hole if he refuses to listen. Blunt isn't what he needs, not with something like this. He needs gentle, and that means he needs to hear it from you, someone he loves and trusts."

"Ya really think he feels that way about me?" Ladonna said softly.

"Uh, sure. Probably."

Ladonna told Francine and Arthur she knew they had elected her to talk to Buster because they were too chicken to do it, but she agreed to confront him as soon as possible. In Francine's opinion, here in the bowling alley was just as good a time as any. Besides, she needed to talk to Arthur about something important, and she needed to do it before he got any bright ideas.

"Go on," Francine said, shooing Ladonna away with a couple of flicks of her wrist before taking Lightning, her prized bowling ball, from its bag and cradling it in her lap. "Don't be afraid. The longer he thinks about it, the more he'll convince himself. Tell him he's full of crap and should give up on his parents getting back together. But, you know, do it tactfully."

"Well, okay. I'll try…"

Francine watched Ladonna stand and take her first tentative steps toward the snack counter before turning her attention to Arthur. Overhead, the endless 80's tunes switched over, from "Causing a Commotion" to "Dance Hall Days." The less-bombastic song meant she would not have to raise her voice too much to be heard. Not that she minded getting loud, but this was a personal matter.

"Now that they're gone, I need to talk to you."

"If you hadn't invited them, you wouldn't need to get rid of them," Arthur said in a cool and quiet voice. "Just saying."

"What—you don't like hanging out with them?"

"It would have been _nice_ to know they were coming along before yesterday, that's all. I just thought you might have checked with me first, since I was the one who invited you out today."

"Arthur, this is our first real break in days. You really want to spend it arguing over this?"

"I'm not arguing. I'm just saying."

"Why are you upset?"

"I'm not. Really. I'm—just forget it."

He got up from his seat and walked over to the hand dryer, as if he were dying for something to do while they waited for Ladonna and Buster. Or he needed an excuse to abandon their argument. She could not let him get away, not until she resolved her problem. She followed him, Lightning in hand.

Inviting Ladonna and Buster along today had been a strategic move on Francine's part. Since Arthur had invited her Tuesday evening, she had been eagerly awaiting their Pie-Bowl outing. However, the longer she spent anticipating the event, thinking about it, the more she wondered if Arthur had been trying to get her alone for other reasons. He had seemed eager when he asked her at rehearsal. Why?

_Well, it's been forever,_ she had reasoned. _We haven't had a ton of free time, thanks to the musical._

Nah. There was more to it. Had to be.

_He's looking forward to spending time with me._

So what if he was? That was not unusual. Unless…

_What if he wants one-on-one time so he can ask me to the Autumn Ball? What if he wants to ask me during Pie-Bowl? Oh…hell, no._

Francine had been quick to get Ladonna and Buster on board with joining her and Arthur Saturday, asking them yesterday morning as soon as the idea had come to her. With Luster around, there would be fewer opportunities for Arthur to ask her. Had she known what would transpire during rehearsal this morning, Francine would not have wasted time worrying. Sue Ellen had approached her as she set up for her _Frensky Star_ interviews, and she had asked some unexpected-but-interesting questions.

"Francine?" Sue Ellen had said shyly. "Hi. I meant to ask you something at lunch yesterday, after you interviewed me, but we ran out of time."

"Yeah?" Francine said, making sure her voice recorder had enough memory, "What's up?"

"The Autumn Ball…" said Sue Ellen, "I was wondering if you're going with anyone?"

"Oh, wow, Sue Ellen. I'm flattered, but—"

"By 'anyone'," Sue Ellen said, "I mean 'Arthur'."

"Arthur?"

"Yes. I thought maybe you and he…?"

"What?"

Sue Ellen looked frustrated. "Might be going together?"

Francine let out a brief, scoffing chuckle. "Why would you think that?"

It was no secret that pretty much everyone at MCM assumed Francine and Arthur were a couple. Pretty much everyone was an idiot. Sue Ellen was one of MCM's smartest students, but even she had managed to get it completely wrong.

"You go out a lot. All the…pizza-bowling the two of you do?"

"We changed it to 'Pie-Bowl'," Francine said, "and it doesn't mean anything."

Sue Ellen tilted her head and asked in a voice that sounded skeptical, "Are you _sure_?"

"Positive."

"Okay… Next question—"

"What—do you want to take him to the Autumn Ball?"

She smiled ruefully. "Would that be okay?"

Sue Ellen never was even remotely this timid. She was confident, not afraid of confrontation. To see her acting like this was bizarre.

"Sue Ellen, why are you asking my permission? I'm not Arthur's mother. We're not going to the dance together, so if you want to ask, I say go for it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Knock yourself out."

"Okay. As long as you're sure…"

"Believe it or not, I don't want to argue," Francine said when she caught up with Arthur at the hand dryer. She placed Lightning on the ball return rack to take the load off until they began the first frame. "You're right, I should've checked with you. I owe you one. For now, let's all have a good time… Truce? I won't even bitch if you beat me again."

"Truce," Arthur said with a nod after a moment's thought.

"Great. Do you want to hear something freaking hilarious? Get this—Sue Ellen wanted my permission to ask you to the Autumn Ball."

Arthur looked surprised, but then his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why is that hilarious?"

"Because she thinks she needs my approval. What's wrong with her?"

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her to ask away."

"What?" Arthur said, sounding as if Francine had said something truly appalling. "Why did you say that?"

"Because she has my approval."

"Approval?"

"You're available," she said sensibly, "and, let's be honest, you could do a lot worse than Sue Ellen Armstrong."

"Well, what if I don't want to go with Sue Ellen Armstrong?"

"Did you ask someone else?" she said, knowing he had not. "Who is it?"

"I haven't asked anyone. Not yet."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I didn't want to ask anyone," he said firmly. "I was thinking about going alone. Or…if you're not going with anyone, maybe we could hang out together while we're there."

" _I'm_ not going to that stupid thing!" Francine said. "Besides, what would I even wear?"

"Didn't Muffy buy you an expensive dress months ago?"

"Oh, that doesn't mean sh—" Francine said, catching herself before she could raise her voice loud enough to be heard by the bowlers in the next lane. "I can't control how Muffy chooses to waste her money. I'm not going to the Autumn Ball. I've got other things to do with my time."

"Like?"

"Like working on my _Frensky Star_ piece, for starters. But really, literally anything else would be a better option. As for you, just tell Sue Ellen 'no' if you don't want to go with her. The rejection won't kill her."

Francine looked away for a second, distracted by Ladonna, who had one arm draped across Buster's shoulders as he supported the pile of cheesy nachos with careful hands. The two were returning to their lane. She picked up Lightning.

"But if you really do want someone to hang out with, well, like I said, you could do a lot worse. If Sue Ellen asks, I think you should say 'yes'."

* * *

With each step, she drew closer and closer to Buster, and Ladonna had absolutely no idea what she was going to say to him.

_How do ya just hurt someone's feelins like that, even if it's what they need to hear?_

She would much rather lift his spirits than deflate them, even if Francine believed she could do it gently.

Perhaps she should have seen this coming. Since his father had moved back to Elwood City, Buster talked about his folks a lot. But that was to be expected, right? Buster had been so young when they had separated, and he barely remembered a time when he was not darting back and forth between here and New York or traveling around the globe and stealing what few moments he could with his father. The distance had been difficult for Buster, along with the fact that he was something to be shared between two people. He never expressed these sentiments outright, but, being a former military brat who had faced her own family difficulties, Ladonna could easily read between the lines and see his frustration. But Mr. Baxter was back, and things were going extremely well, and there was no way Ladonna would begrudge Buster the endless babbling his newfound happiness and optimism had brought on. Not until now. She had to agree with Arthur and Francine that it was time to worry, at least a little. There was danger in the way Buster was thinking, and his happiness and optimism could turn into delusion at the drop of a hat, setting him up for major heartache if his wishes did not come true.

_And it might be your fault, ya big dummy_ , she scolded herself. _At least, partly._

Buster smiled as she approached, and he continued to wait for his nachos.

"Hey," she said.

Amused, Buster gave her an exaggerated, arching wave. "Hey!"

"So…how's it goin'?"

"Ladonna, are you okay? We've spent most of the day together. Why are you acting like we just ran into each other at the mall?" His smile faded. He must have read her nervousness.

"Can we talk for a sec?"

Buster held up a finger to the clerk behind the counter, wordlessly letting him know he would be back as Ladonna took him by the wrist and led him over to the wide window of the pro shop. It was quieter in this corner of the alley. Buster said nothing, but he looked concerned as he crossed his arms right across Hello Kitty's face.

"I hafta know," she began, glancing down at her bowling shoes before summoning the courage to look at him, "Did I start somethin'? I'm afraid I might've."

Buster shook his head. "Help me out here."

"When I gave ya that photo, the one from parents' night?" she said, and she could tell he was searching his memory but not piecing everything together. Before Ladonna knew it, her nerves had gotten the better of her, and she was chattering uncontrollably. "See here, I'm so happy that things are workin' out for ya and your mom and dad, but if I'm responsible for ya…thinkin' things, then…not that it's _wrong_ to think things, as long as ya don't overdo it—"

Buster held up a hand. "I'm afraid if I don't stop you now, you'll never be able to do it on your own," he said with a tight grin. "In a nutshell, tell me what's bothering you."

"I don't want ya to get hurt, and neither do Arthur and Francine."

She followed Buster's gaze to their lane, where his two best friends were deep in conversation.

"Earlier," she said, forcing herself to talk slowly, "when ya were talkin' about your mom and dad and got all excited, and ya said it would be great if they got back together…well, they got kinda worried about ya. It worried me, too, the more I thought about it, and now I can't help but wonder if givin' ya that photo might've…helped ya along in wantin' that for your folks."

He balked at this then seemed embarrassed that he had done so, and he tried to cover everything up under a smile. It was hard to watch.

"Ladonna…"

"I don't want ya to stop feelin' happy, but maybe just manage your expectations a little? Situations like this can be pretty sticky, ya know?"

"I know, I know," he said quickly. "Believe me. You guys don't need to worry about me. Maybe I have yakked about it too much lately, but I swear I'm good. It's only because Mom and Dad…I wish I could explain it, but it's private, between them. But if I could, you'd understand just how much _better_ things are, way better than I ever thought they would be. Sorry if it sounded like I was dreaming too big. Of course I don't _actually_ think they'll get back together! That's pretty crazy. As long as they keep getting along, I'll be perfectly happy, and I really think they will. My expectations are completely realistic, I promise. And don't worry about the parents' night pic. You didn't start anything."

"That's a relief," Ladonna said, flinging her arms around him and hugging him tightly. Though it had been a tough conversation to start, it had not been as awful as she had anticipated, and she was glad she had done it. "Ya know ya can always talk to me if you need to, though."

"I know," he said before pulling away and throwing a thumb toward the snack counter. "Nachos are getting cold. Ready to head back to the lane and watch those two avoid gazing into each other's eyes?"

She placed her hands on her hips, shaking her head as she stared at Arthur and Francine. "They are so awkward…"

" _Yeah_ , they are."

Ladonna walked back with Buster, her arm around him. She foolishly believed her boyfriend's expectations for his parents were managed when they were not, and she did not know she would soon comfort Buster after he received a very rude awakening.

_To be continued…_


	6. Prince Charming and Possibilities

Beef stew simmered away in the slow cooker late Saturday afternoon as Bitzi chopped cucumbers for the accompanying salad. She had tried to get Bo to come back and have some with her and Buster after work, but Bo had already promised Rick he would join him, his daughter April, and April's husband Jimmy for dinner.

"Some tapas place in Belmont," he had explained as he loaded the dishwasher. "April is a big fan. Rain check?"

"Name the day."

"Uh, let me think… I'm chaperoning at the school dance next Saturday… How about Wednesday?"

"As long as you're good with chicken Alfredo…"

Buster was still out, though he was due back soon, and Bitzi could not wait for another person to be around, making noise. Although she had stayed busy all day long, the condo seemed empty since Bo left for Ingram. After a morning filled with gossip and banter, the sudden silence his absence left behind, cold as the weather outside, permeated her space, making her all too aware of its annoying presence. She switched on the kitchen radio, still tuned to NPR, for background noise as she went on about her day.

Once the vegetables were cut into manageable pieces, she let the chef's knife rest on the cutting board and dried her hands before turning down _Fresh Air_ and crossing the room. She had left her phone on the table. Picking it up, she wrestled with the idea of texting Buster, just to check in. It was something she had promised to cut back on now that her son was older, to allow him more independence. Ultimately, she realized that she would only be doing it out of sheer need for person-to-person communication, which was silly, and she decided to let Buster be. The phone sounded before she could abandon it again, its loud chime bouncing off the kitchen walls. It was Jane Read, and Bitzi was eager to answer.

"If you wanted to spend time with Bo today," Jane said in a voice that was quiet but teasing, "all you had to do was say so. No need to invent a story about catching up on housework."

"Huh?" Bitzi said.

"The motorcycle? What's the deal?"

So that's what the look had been about this morning. Jane had seen Bitzi and Bo laughing over the mid-life-crisismobile, and now she was going to give her a hard time about it.

"Oh…that." Bitzi wandered back toward the cutting board and began to scoop up the cucumber bits and transfer them into the wooden salad bowl with one hand. "Bo was just showing me the bike he bought. _Stella._ And I did catch up on housework."

"Mm-hmm."

"Mm-hmm nothing," she laughed. "I'm afraid you're drawing entirely the wrong conclusion, Jane."

"Or, I saw you two in town while I was out running errands. No judging. As the kids say: You do you."

Bitzi shook her head as she popped open the dishwasher. "Okay, so we had breakfast, but that was it." She ran the cutting board under a stream of warm water before placing it inside but left the knife next to the sink for hand washing.

"Did you have a good time?"

She wanted to tell Jane how high school she was being right now, to dismiss her by making a mockery of her insinuations.

_Oh my god, Jane, he bought me coffee and, like, totally touched my shoulder! We are so boyfriend and girlfriend and junk!_

It made sense that Jane would be so inquisitive, sound so curious at the prospect of Bitzi and Bo sharing the same general space. After all, the divorce had seemed to devastate Jane as much as anyone. She had been in tears when Bitzi broke the news, and Bitzi asked her to explain why.

"I don't know! You were so _good_ together. I guess I just don't understand how this could happen."

Bitzi could not tell Jane what had actually happened between her and Bo. She could not tell anyone, did not think she ever would be able to. But what on earth could she tell her? What were the plausible reasons? Why did average couples divorce? Surely, there were a multitude of explanations from which to choose:

He was abusive?

A liar?

A cheater?

A drunk?

Those were no good. Not even the vague "He wasn't the man I thought he was" would cut it. None of those things were true about Bo, to the point where the mere idea of uttering such blatant lies felt downright blasphemous. He was one of the most exceedingly, inherently good people she had ever known, a rare find in her world that revolved around exposing the ugly nature of certain other people. To besmirch his name with such unsavory attributes could very well condemn her soul to Hell, well, if she had not already done that the night she set Byron's safety aside to meet up with Elliot, a historically unpredictable man.

Bitzi had settled on, "We…grew apart. It happens."

"It happened awfully fast, though. I swear, it seemed like yesterday—you told me you were floating the idea of trying for baby number two. And now _this_? I'm so sorry, Bitzi…"

And now Jane's excitement was palpable over the phone line. More than excitement, there was hope in her "Did you have a good time?". She actually sounded hopeful. Had she secretly been wishing for a reunion all this time? Bitzi forgot about dinner and leaned on the counter with her free hand. She hated to burst Jane's bubble.

"Jane… It was a nice break, but I'm not _seeing_ him, if that's what you're implying. We're…civil."

"And awfully smiley with each other, from what I could see…"

"Oh, stop," she groaned. "Just so you know, there is someone I'm thinking about seeing."

"Oh, a would-be suitor?" A new interest, it seemed, was piqued. "I'm listening…"

She told Jane about Joel, what he did for a living, how he was forty-seven and a divorcé, as well as all the other tidbits she had learned about him throughout their acquaintanceship.

"And his daughter Holly goes to Penn State. Let's see, what else…? He's into rock climbing and sailing, and he's third baseman for his company's team."

She went on about how they first met, how, in hindsight, their email exchanges had progressively grown friendlier and almost playful, and how perhaps she should have realized what was happening between them but had no idea until it hit her a few days ago.

"Maybe I've just been too busy to see what was in front of me, too preoccupied. All I know is I wasn't even looking for anyone, and now, out of nowhere, this nice, intriguing, good-looking guy is interested in me."

"Good-looking, too?"

"Mmm, and fashion-forward—probably the only man I've met who can pull off mustard-yellow slacks."

"He sounds like quite a catch," Jane agreed. "So, what's the holdup?"

"My complete shock, to start. It's one thing to be single and looking, quite another to be resigned to your busy-but-workaday world, only for it to be turned upside down by Prince Charming and possibilities."

The concept had to be hard for Jane, who had married young and managed to remain married for nearly sixteen years now, to grasp.

"For another thing, I'm terrible when it comes to sustaining relationships. You know that. I couldn't make it work with Harry, and I really cared about him. Every other attempt barely got off the ground. No sparks, or they all fizzled out before they had a real chance. I couldn't commit because I don't have enough time for a social life."

"We're adults with careers, Bitzi. How much time do any of us have for a social life?"

"So true, it's depressing," she said with a nod Jane could not see.

"My point is, if you want something badly enough, you'll _make_ time. If you can find enough to galivant around town on the back of Stella with Captain Baxter, I'm sure you can set aside some time in your busy-but-workaday schedule for Mr. Noonan. I think a part of you wants to explore those possibilities, but you wonder why you should bother if this won't work out like with all the others. But what if it does?"

"You're saying the reason it never worked with anyone else is because I didn't want it to?"

"I'm saying only you know _what_ you want. Maybe Joel does it for you; maybe he doesn't. Only you can determine that. He's interested, so maybe you could give him a shot. It could end up being nothing, or it could end up being spark city, and you _will_ make time for that."

Jane's "just-go-with-it" attitude was all well and good, but there was a lot she still did not know.

"Maybe," Bitzi said weakly, "but…it's more complicated than that."

"What? What's complicated?"

"You're going to love this."

"What, Bitzi?"

"Bo—"

"Ha! I knew there was something!"

"It's not what you think. Things are…a bit more than civil. They're cordial. Because we've worked on it, for Buster's sake. I won't lie, it was rocky when he first got here, but we put in the effort and got past it, and now we're friends. And he does come over frequently. We have dinner, the three of us, and I don't know if I could trade the looks of happiness and content I see on their faces for anything. Suppose things take off with Joel. What happens to the civility, the cordiality? What happens to the rapport Bo and I have built?"

"You can still have it? Some things might have to change, but if Joel has any kind of decency, he won't object to you two having a sound line of communication or to Bo being in Buster's life."

"But the family dinners…"

"Well, yes, that's one of the things that will likely need to change. Just because Bo stops coming over to your place, that doesn't mean Buster can't go to his house for dinner, or even spend weekends there. They can do all sorts of things together—one of the advantages of Bo living here."

"You're right."

If only it were that simple.

"Is it wrong that I enjoy the family dinners too?"

"Wow, Bitzi…"

"Listen to me. Besides Bo, you're the first adult with whom I have discussed anything that isn't related to headlines or policy meetings in the past week. When he's around, I feel like I've got one of my best friends back. I don't exactly want to say goodbye to that. And I think…Bo feels the same way. We're in a good place, and it seems almost cruel to cut those ties. If things work with Joel, I'll probably have to. I mean, who wants to date a woman who's close with her ex-husband? Jane?"

Her friend was dumbfounded, and Bitzi had not told her even half of what was on her mind.

"Jane?"

"That's…a tough one. Now I'm afraid I might steer you wrong no matter what I say."

"See what I mean when I say it's complicated?"

"Yes, I think I do. It sounds like you've got a _lot_ to work out. I take it Bo doesn't know about Joel?"

"Haven't said a word to him."

It had never been pleasant, having to inform Bo that she was seeing someone. Likewise, it always stung, at least a little, whenever he gave her similar news. They did not owe each other any explanations, but it had always been an inexplicable, unspoken courtesy each offered the other, and Bo always accepted her information with understanding and grace. This potential situation with Joel, however, was more than just a passing "Oh, by the way, I'm dating again" between two individuals who lived seven hours apart. It could be a life changer for everyone.

"Well," Jane said, sounding far less confident now, "maybe you and Bo will be able to figure something out. He's a good guy. He'll likely want what's best for you."

That was what Bitzi was afraid of, something she had come to realize through counseling and brutally honest conversations with her ex: Bo always wanted what was best for her, even if it caused him to die on the inside.

_To be continued…_


	7. A Girl in Armor

Alan approached MCM on foot Monday morning, moving about with greater speed and less pain than he had experienced the day before. Saturday morning had been his first one-on-one Hatha Yoga class with Prunella which, despite being designed for beginners, had been challenging and left him with various interesting and conflicting takeaways. Sunday was the sorest he had ever felt, but there was a vast difference from other times he had experienced soreness. Rather than being stiff and immobile, he felt agile and energetic, and his muscles, though tender, were surprisingly pliant. He had been polite enough to humor her, but Alan did not buy into any of the chakra-balancing claims Prunella purported during her introduction. However, he could not deny the process had restorative and rejuvenating properties, or at least, the process had provided the illusion of those qualities. For an activity requiring intense focus and precision as well as a requisite amount of exertion and testing of physical limits, tranquility was buried in its depths, something he had not fully realized until it was over. As they were closing out the class together, lying in Shavasana and focusing on their breathing, Alan had been so relaxed he began to drift, only to be pulled back when Prunella spoke up, her voice sharper than it had been during class:

"Are you asleep?"

"No," Alan said thickly and as rapidly as he could manage while reclaiming his thoughts from the drowse. Feeling lazy and embarrassed, he tried to sit up, but Prunella held out a hand to stop him.

"That's okay," she said, holding back a chuckle. "I was kind of expecting you to. It happens, even to me sometimes, even after all these years. We only have about a minute or two left. You're doing great."

He had felt great. Once the class was over, Alan took time to reflect on the experience. It was as if his body had been taken apart and put back together and made better because of it. He walked taller. He felt more alert yet simultaneously more relaxed, and he paused to take deeper, calming breaths more often, something Dr. Paula reminded him to do nearly every session. Besides the soreness, which would eventually fade and gradually lessen as the weeks went on, he had yet to experience any negative effects, and it would be interesting to see what results future classes yielded.

Alan's stride shortened, and he slowed down as he mulled over these thoughts. Could it be that he was actually looking forward to his next class? He could hardly wait to share what he had discovered with Dr. Paula. He had a lot of things to share with her this afternoon—more good things than bad, which was a welcomed change, though there were some new developments that were beginning to concern him. The school's entrance grew closer, but his attention was drawn to the end of the lane, where a black limousine idled, turn signal blinking and steamy exhaust billowing in the cold morning air, likely headed back to Nouveau Lane. Muffy was already here. Subconsciously, Alan quickened his pace.

When he made it to the hall, Muffy was standing at her open locker, which was five down from his. She drew her phone from her peacoat pocket and regarded it with a forlorn expression before stowing it in her locker for the day. Her coat joined her phone, and then she began rummaging through the other items within. Something about her demeanor intimidated Alan. Walking up to Muffy now and beginning a conversation would be inappropriate, would it not? Perhaps it only felt that way because the knowledge of her private moment of sadness along with her recent peculiar behavior was beginning to weigh on him, and it was not clear how or even if the subject should be broached. Unsure of what to do, Alan went straight to his locker, opened it, and rummaged around himself, making more noise than he normally would have in order to be noticed over the din caused by other students in the hallway, eyeing Muffy in his periphery. He only looked her way when she paused to look at him.

"Ohmigod," Muffy said, flashing him a kind smile as she closed her locker and approached him. Her smile did not entirely mask her sad, worried eyes, a look Alan had become familiar with thanks to the series of sad and worrisome times they had weathered recently. "I'm so glad I made it before you. I was hoping you could do me a teensy favor?"

She fidgeted with her fingers in a showy manner, but Alan sensed her embarrassed tone was genuine.

"What do you need?" said Alan.

"So… I know we have a tutoring sesh tomorrow, but Serendipity texted me yesterday evening and—"

"Hold on. Serendipity? That's a person?"

"She's a nail tech. My nail tech; the best I've ever had. We're talking flawless, and that's why she stays booked. Anyway, with, you know, everything that has been going on, I totally forgot I scheduled an appointment months ago. I knew I would need a mani-pedi for the Autumn Ball."

"And you want to skip a session."

"Are you kidding? I don't want to miss a single one. I was just wondering if we could push it back half an hour."

"Thirty minutes?" Alan was highly skeptical of her proposed time frame.

"Yeah. Well, forty-five. Fifty, tops. Do you mind waiting in the limo and going to my house from the salon? If Daddy's home, it'll look a lot better if we arrive together. Please? It's only an hour."

Why did she look so desperate, fearful that he might reject the idea? Alan almost pitied her.

"Hey, it's only an hour," he said with a good-natured shrug. "I'm sure I can occupy myself while I wait."

Muffy's shoulders relaxed, and her mood shifted. In an instant, she eased into lighthearted and bubbly. "You're a life saver. You know, if you get bored in the limo, feel free to come in and get a pedicure, on me."

"Right," Alan said, building on her joke with a pretend scoff. "Imagine me with painted toenails."

This was better than watching her feel down.

"Not that I wouldn't pay good money to see Alan Powers sporting 'Tickled Pink'," Muffy said, giggling at the idea, "but you don't have to get polish. Lot's of people don't, both girls and guys. They go for the other benefits. And the _experience_."

"Experience? You make it sound like whale watching."

"I don't know about that, but it is a lot more than just painting nails. There are massage chairs and foot rubs and a warm Jacuzzi, and when it's all over, your feet feel brand new. You wouldn't believe how relaxing it is."

"Relaxing…"

Alan was not sure if Muffy was pitching him the idea, but she did make it sound intriguing, tempting.

"You get all that in one hour? Okay, you're on."

Briefly, Muffy's eyes searched his face, waiting for him to break.

"You're serious?" Her voice, as well as her expression, was a curious mix of disbelief, amusement, and hopefulness. "Why?"

"I guess I'm trying to broaden my horizons and not be so dismissive of activities that might help me relax," he said lowly. "I had doubts about yoga, but I'm glad I tried it. So I supposed the real question is: Why not?"

"I am _so_ proud of you…" This time, Muffy's smile was evident in her eyes, but it did not last long. It would seem she had said something she found wildly offensive, and she immediately backtracked. "I mean, you shouldn't feel pressured to do anything just because it might…speed things along. You can totally make your own decisions. I'm just glad you've made a decision you feel is right for you. Anyway, tomorrow is going to be so much fun! I can't believe we're actually going to the nail salon together. Oh, you've just made my morning way, way better!"

Confusing course correction aside, Alan could not help but wonder. "Really?" he said, trying not to sound too nosy. "What made it so bad?"

He could not fool Muffy, however, for she had already plastered on her carefree smile, the armor she donned to show the rest of the school that she was a Crosswire and she was strong.

"It's just an expression, Alan."

That was a lie, Alan was almost certain, but Muffy swatted his chest playfully with the back of her hand to drive home how silly she thought his question was. Alan ignored the sharp pain that rippled through his sore pectoral as he watched her saunter toward her homeroom, her schoolbag slung casually over one shoulder. The more distance she put between them physically, the greater Alan's concern grew that his friendship with Muffy was changing, and not for the better. Post Halloween, things had seemed good, but now it felt as if a metaphorical distance were widening between them as well. She was almost too careful with him now, which made her feel colder and impersonal. Moreover, something was bothering her, and for whatever reason she did not seem able to confide in him when they had already shared so much. The situation was becoming increasingly confusing and disheartening. Alan's bond with Muffy was one of the best things that ever happened to him, and the thought of growing apart from his friend, his ally, was scary. He had to find a way to prevent their friendship from slipping through his fingers.

_To be continued…_


	8. Help and Hurt

Francine followed Arthur closely as the two weaved their way through the busy lunchroom Monday afternoon. Each held their tray aloft as they walked and talked, careful not to whack the heads of unsuspecting students or risk their trays being upended by an errant classmate engaged in horseplay in the aisle. Today's topic of lunchtime conversation was the same topic as it had been for this morning's conversation as well as every conversation between them since Saturday's Pie-Bowl outing.

"I don't get it," she said loudly so she could be heard over the throng, "Sue Ellen seemed pretty freaking eager to ask you. It's kind of weird that she hasn't."

First thing today, Francine had greeted Arthur, not with a "Hello!" or "Good morning!" or even a "What's going on, loser?" but with, "Have you heard from Sue Ellen yet?" She had even called him about it yesterday evening, sounding desperate to know. It was as if she expected him to keep her updated, as if it were her personal business.

But Arthur had not heard a word from Sue Ellen, neither over the phone nor in person, news that always seemed to perplex and annoy Francine. It was odd to Arthur, too, to be honest. Confrontation of any sort had never been an issue for Sue Ellen, so he had to agree with Francine that, if Sue Ellen intended to ask him to the Autumn Ball, it was weird that she had not done so by now. Arthur was beginning to feel suspicious. Was Francine pulling a prank? That did not make sense; he could not see a motive. Or maybe Francine had misunderstood Sue Ellen in some way, and that was not what Sue Ellen had been asking at all.

"You'd think she would by now. Wouldn't she? She practically handed a permission slip over for me to sign."

"I don't know, Francine."

He was dedicated to being as noncommittal to the subject as he could be, and he was grateful that they were finally approaching their usual table, where Alan and Muffy already sat across from each other. They did not seem to be on unfriendly terms since they were sitting together, but Arthur noticed they were not talking as animatedly as they usually did. Instead, Muffy craned to look around the cafeteria, something she used to do whenever she wanted to make sure others noticed the new outfit she was wearing. Alan stole curious glances at Muffy between bites, but said nothing. Buster showed up on Alan's side of the table, just as Arthur and Francine took a seat side by side next to Muffy.

"What's up, perverts?!" Buster's voice was cheery. He placed his tray on the table and exaggerated a thinking pose, cradling his chin with his thumb and index finger as he surveyed the table's occupants. "Wow…every single one of you looked up. Very telling, especially with this one," he said, slapping Alan on the back.

"I only—" Alan sputtered defensively. "Anyone would— Shut up, man…"

Their table shared a laugh, all except for Muffy, who eyed Alan with caution, waiting for him to laugh before apparently deciding it was okay to join in. Buster sat down and began his meal by tearing his role in half. Before stuffing his face, he asked, "Anything going on after school today?"

"Well," said Arthur, "Francine and I are trying to throw an extra musical practice at her place, but so far we've got no takers."

"Maybe because no one wants to spend every waking hour working on the musical. Except for Fern, I guess," Buster added thoughtfully. "And even she's cut back so she can work on her new book. At least, that's what she says. Not that she needs the practice—she's got it in the bag."

Francine muttered something, but it had not been low enough. Arthur distinctly heard her say, "I'm sure she does," in a condescending tone. Unable to help himself, he looked her way, but Francine feigned innocence and concentrated on her food.

"Anyway," Buster said, "I'm actually kind of glad she stopped asking me to practice. I need time to relax and refill my creative well."

"Which means you play video games and hang out with _Compson_ ," Francine teased.

"Hey, I do other stuff, too, like the special project I'm working on this afternoon. But mostly, yes."

Buster had spoken of his so-called special project this morning and how he planned to work on it while Ladonna was busy with card drive stuff. Knowing that he was committed to it, Arthur had not even mentioned the impromptu practice to his best friend. Even though he could be lazy, once the boy dedicated himself to a task, he was all in. Buster had not divulged any specific details about his project, but he assured Arthur that it was going to be great and that, no, it was not another agent query for Fern. Arthur was pleased to know Buster had learned his lesson on that one.

"She says you two haven't kissed yet," said Francine. "What's up with that?"

Buster paused at Francine's pressing, looking as if the fact had hit him for the first time.

"Um, I dunno. We just haven't."

"Don't you think it's time you did something about it?"

"Like what?"

"Make a move. You're not a real couple until you've kissed."

"Says who?'

"I'm right. Arthur, tell him I'm right."

"I…really don't want to get involved," Arthur said.

Thinking of Buster as any sort of romantic being was a bit much for him to grasp, even though he figured it would happen sooner or later. Even so, Arthur did not think he was ready to discuss his best friend's love life at length. Some things took time.

"Muffy, back me up."

Muffy had been staring at Alan, who did not look to be highly invested in the argument as he ate quietly, his face impassive as he chewed. He looked to Muffy as soon as her name was called, however. Muffy, in turn, snapped out of her gaze and joined the mix.

"Yeah, Buster. What are you waiting for?"

"Um, well," Buster's eyes darted around their table, "Ladonna made the first move. I was kind of hoping she'd make the second one."

"Ohmigod, no one likes a lazy lover," Muffy said. "You've got to get in there, make equal effort!"

"Yes!" Francine said. "Thank you!"

Buster dismissed them with a laugh as he stood. "You know, out of everyone at this table," he said with an air of mirth, "I can't help but notice I'm the only one in a relationship, or at least the only one willing to admit it. And you want to give me crap about how it should be done? Best joke I've heard all day. Ska-rew you guys, I'm going home."

He took his tray and walked over to Ladonna, who stood waiting for him at a wobbly, vacant table in the corner. He greeted her with something they could not hear but made her laugh, and the two sat down.

"I never actually said anything," Alan said quietly, the corner of his mouth pulling into an amused smirk.

At this, Muffy smiled. She turned her attention back to Arthur and Francine.

"Seriously, no one's joining your practice?" she said.

"Doesn't look like it," Francine said.

"Binky, George, and Maria are on the Autumn Ball committee, so—" Arthur began, but Francine cut him off.

"And Sue Ellen," she added.

"Yeah. And Sue Ellen. So they're pretty busy this week unless it's official school musical business. And Binky is freaking out, worried that the Ball won't be any good. He says he doesn't want his name attached to 'some dumb, sucky dance'. Between this and _The Music Man_ , he's no fun to be around right now."

"I can understand his stress," Muffy said, her voice growing louder. She leaned back and practically announced, "The committee has a lot to accomplish. After all, it's only five days until the Autumn Ball! Anyone who still needs a date had better hurry up and ask!"

Muffy turned in her seat, checking to see if anyone from the table behind her was listening, and she continued.

" _My_ dress is stunning, a replica of Lola's dress from _Deadlight_! And I'm getting my hair and nails done—everything is going to be _magical_!"

A few students were staring now, and they looked put off by Muffy's obnoxiousness. Alex turned to glare at her, then pulled his ears down as he faced his friends again. Even Buster and Ladonna were looking her way.

"It _is_ going to be magical," she said firmly, this time with her normal voice.

Muffy abruptly left the table and dumped her tray on her way out of the cafeteria. Arthur and Francine shared a confused look as Alan left in her wake, hurrying to catch up.

* * *

Muffy fought the urge to run to her locker and check her Infinity, once again reasoning with herself. She could wait three more hours. It was the middle of a school day. What were the odds someone would risk a write-up when they could simply ask her now?

_Face it, what are the odds anyone is going to ask me, period?_

Muffy had everything set up. Nail and hair appointments were scheduled, she had finally obtained the much-coveted Turnt eyeshadow palette, and she had a gorgeous dress, altered to perfection by Bailey, waiting in her closet. Everything was in line, ready for Saturday, everything except for a companion, the one thing that would prevent her from looking like an utter loser. The hour was getting late, and it was looking more and more likely that a companion would never come along. And then she would be forced to stay home Saturday due to an awful, raging stomach bug, the excuse she would give to everyone for her absence, because she could not show up alone, not after she had spent months talking up the ball, how great it was going to be. She did not think she could face the shame.

As much as this hurt Muffy, it also did not make sense to her. She was a great hostess. She threw the best, sometimes legendary parties. It was one of the many things for which Crosswires were known. Everyone wanted an invitation, to be seen at them. So why was it nobody wanted her? It did not matter how well-dressed she was when she showed up at the Autumn Ball. It was all for nothing if she was unwanted.

"Muffy?"

She blinked back tears when she heard Alan, calling her from the middle of the hall. She sniffed, making sure she was not about to experience an uncontrollable runny-nose situation that might give her away. She flashed him a pleasant smile as she turned around.

"Yeah?"

"Is everything all right?" he said, brow creased as he approached.

She gave her best attempt at an unwitting shrug. "Yeah. Just getting ready for next period."

Alan fell into step with her as she headed to her locker, and Muffy knew he was not going to give up so easily. Why had she left the lunchroom like that? What a dumb mistake.

"To me, it seems like something is bothering you."

"Well, you're wrong, Alan. I'm fine."

She headed straight for her locker, reaching out for her combination, when Alan stepped in front of her.

"I get why you feel compelled to put on a façade for the others, but remember, it's not necessary with me."

"Noted," she said, "but nothing's the matter."

"Something is. I can tell, and I'm beginning to worry."

"Stop that!" she snapped in a hushed, appalled tone. "Don't you dare waste your time worrying about me, not when—"

"How can you say that? We both know how important it is to have an outlet for—"

"It's not my family, if that's what you're thinking. It's silly and embarrassing, and it's nothing you should be worried about. You have enough already—I mean, not that you should worry at all. You shouldn't… I need my bag."

She motioned for Alan to step aside and he complied, looking stung and confused, and Muffy grew even more disgusted with herself for handling things this way. Now she really regretted losing her cool at the table. Hastily, she dialed her combination and retrieved her schoolbag.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said as she left him behind. "We're going to relax, okay, and try to forget everything."

* * *

"I simply can't forget everything, Doctor."

Alan sat on Dr. Paula's sofa Monday afternoon, wringing his hands in his lap, as his psychiatrist took down notes in her ever-present padfolio. This had not been the plan. He wanted to come in and share some good news with her before talking about life's negative aspects and delving into his grief. He had been dreaming about Lydia again lately. They were not nightmares this time around. In fact, he barely remembered them. Still, he wanted some insight as to what they could possibly mean, which meant Dr. Paula would ask him a series of questions that would ultimately lead him to an answer on his own. However, as soon as Dr. Paula had asked him how he was feeling today, Alan launched into the most prevalent subject on his mind: Muffy. He covered everything from _The Noob's Guide_ to her evasiveness to her commanding him not to worry about her.

"She says it's silly, and maybe it is…"

He had never discussed Muffy's personal and family problems with Dr. Paula. He only referred to them has "her issues" when talking of his kinship with her, always avoiding the details, feeling it was not his place to make anyone privy to her woes, especially when she kept them so close to the vest.

"I don't know, maybe I shouldn't needle her about it, whatever is going on. Maybe it is just something embarrassing for her to talk about. As long as she's not in danger, I suppose I could respect her privacy. But the reticence and awkwardness when it applies to _me_ and my issues… I honestly don't think I can stand it much longer. I just want to talk to her, but I can't anymore, and I suspect it's because of that book. I was touched when I first found it, touched because of what her possession of it meant. But now? She thinks it's helping, but it's not. I believe that, instead of guiding her, it's causing her to second-guess everything she's ever done, and now she's over-correcting her behavior to the point where we're unable to connect. Whatever it is, it's making things worse between us. I don't want our friendship to change."

Dr. Paula was silent for a moment, and Alan surmised that she was giving him a couple of extra seconds to catch his breath in case there was anything he wanted to add before asking, "What do you feel is the right thing to do about this?"

"Not forgetting about it," he said, looking at his twisting fingers, "and certainly not bottling it up. I can't do either of those things. I need to be honest with her, but I'm afraid."

Dr. Paula moved to the edge of her seat. She always seemed to do this just before she ended up offering him the tissue box, anticipating an outpouring of tears. She wore a kind and sympathetic expression.

"How do you think she would react if you told her you were displeased with her methods? Do you fear she would end your friendship?"

"No," Alan said without hesitation. "She's more than capable of emotional extremes, but I don't believe she would react that way in that case. I probably wouldn't have thought that months ago, but experience has definitely altered my opinion."

"What is it you're afraid of, Alan?"

"I don't want to hurt her," he said softly. "She's worked extremely hard to earn my trust, to be there for me and help me. I might not be here, talking this openly if not for her. If not for her, I might not be here at all. Who knows what I would've done if she hadn't grounded me? On multiple occasions? I've watched her beat herself up over not believing she could help me enough. Sure, she wasn't perfect, but she tried, and even though I know it wasn't easy for her, she never treated me like a burden. Now she thinks this book has the answers, but it actually has turned me into a burden for her, and I hate it. How do I tell her that without hurting her all over again?"

He did not wait for Dr. Paula. He reached for the tissues himself and pulled one out, dabbing his brimming eyes with it.

"I'm tired of everyone feeling hurt, but how can I help someone when I can barely help myself?"

"Interesting," Dr. Paula said.

"What's interesting?" said Alan, sniffling.

"What you just said. If I recall correctly, Muffy said something very similar to you the evening you begged her not to, as you put it, leave you behind. She doubted her ability to help you, and yet she did. It's very interesting to me how people, even in times of extreme doubt, are capable of much more than they realize. But that's just me. What do _you_ think, Alan?"

_To be continued…_


	9. The End of Friendship

"Why can't I stop flubbing these stupid-ass lines?!" Francine spat.

Although none of the Not Ready for High School Players had agreed to join them for the extra practice this afternoon, Francine and Arthur had stuck to their commitment, ending up at Francine's apartment as soon as school had let out. Francine decided to get her understudy duties out of the way first, but things were not going well, and they were only fifteen minutes in. The footbridge scene was really giving her hell, which was inexcusable. This was hardly Shakespearean dialogue, and yet she became tongue-tied whenever Marian confessed her true feelings for Harold, as if her mouth physically rejected the words coming out of it. She gave her understudy script, the copy that contained yellow highlights and margin notes on all things Marian Paroo, an unceremonious toss onto the kitchen pass through and made for the refrigerator. Arthur, who sat on one of the stools, placed a hand atop the script before it could slide off the edge.

"I need a pastrami." Francine opened the door with a frustrated sigh. "I think we still have some left. Want a snack? There's a whole buffet in this thing. Bubby's been cooking up a storm since she got here."

Bubby had come to town Friday. She planned to stay through Thanksgiving, choosing to divide her stay between her two daughters' households. From the moment she arrived she had set to baking and cooking, everything her doctor advised her not to eat since placing her on a GERD diet. "Such a tragedy…" Bubby had tutted as she whipped up a delicious potato casserole. "If I can't eat it, _somebody_ should." It was nice having her around, even if it meant having to share her bedroom again.

"I'm good, thanks," Arthur said, resting on his elbows. He glanced around the apartment. "Where is your grandmother, anyway?"

"Out?" Francine offered as she placed the meat and a squeeze bottle of mustard on the counter and searched for bread, finding one of Bubby's fresh loaves, baked this morning. "Probably visiting with the Sapersteins or Mrs. Pariso. She says she breaks into a nervous _shvitz_ if she stays cooped up in a quiet house for too long, and I doubt she's joking."

Not wanting to disappoint Bubby if she spoiled her dinner too much, Francine made a half sandwich. As she worked, she thought about the ridiculous situation she was in.

"Why am I even bothering, Arthur? This is so pointless. If a bad audition didn't prevent Coach Sorrell from giving the lead to her pet, then I'm not sure what it would take to get Fern out of this freaking production. And don't give me that look."

His look was easily translatable. He thought, just because she had mentioned it, Francine secretly wished for a miracle to come along and remove Fern from the musical.

"That's not what I mean. I was just saying that Fern is Marian, and this is sofa king pointless."

"Look at it this way: You're Mrs. Shinn, and that's a pretty big role, right? Coach Sorrell must have a lot of faith in you to give you understudy duties on top of it."

"If she has so much faith in me, why didn't she give me Marian in the first place?"

"Or you can keep complaining…" Arthur mumbled.

Francine supposed she was being annoying, even if she was right.

"Look, I thought I was over it, but… I'm not trying to be a schlong about it, but I really thought I won this one, fair and square. It sucks to know that I was great and didn't get it, and on top of it I have the part shoved in my face every day," she pointed toward the understudy script with her butter knife, "knowing it's a big, fat waste of my time."

"It's a necessary part of the production."

"Is it, though? I think Alex would agree with me, and he has even bigger shoes to fill. During his interview, I asked him how he handles understudying for Buster, and he was really chill. He said he just learns the role as best he can and tries not to think about it, that it's a three-night event and the chances of being called on to fill in are really slim. Even he knows it's pointless…but even he's doing a better job at getting this crap down. What's wrong with me?"

"Stress?" said Arthur. "When someone gives you a task, you throw yourself into it because you want to be the best you can be. So, knowing you, it doesn't matter if your chances of appearing on stage as Marian are slim. There's still a chance. So you put pressure on yourself to get it perfect. I don't think that's a _bad_ thing, but like I said, you're already playing Mrs. Shinn. And then there's the _Frensky Star_ article you're working on… That's a lot going on at once, Francine. I wouldn't blame you if you are feeling stressed."

It made a lot of sense. Normally, she welcomed a challenge, a chance to prove herself, but this really did feel like a lot at once, as if she were being yanked in several different directions when she had already taken a huge hit to her morale. How had Arthur done it, just looked into her like that, managed to decode everything she was feeling?

_Because he knows you, asshole. And he's trying to help, so why don't you let him?_

She knew the answer. It was because, while Arthur was right, she could not allow him to know he was _that_ right. She wished she could thank him, not just for putting up with her, but for trying to soothe her as well. It was really too bad she could not.

"It's probably extra stressful since you wanted to play Marian and were let down."

"Jeez, you're still analyzing me? I'm trying to eat."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Has Sue Ellen asked you yet?" She said, ignoring him as she bit into her sandwich.

" _No_ , Francine."

He sounded annoyed.

"Weird. Are you going to go with her?"

"At this point, I don't know if I'm going at all."

"You should, and you should go with Sue Ellen, that is, if she ever gets off her freaking butt and asks you."

"If you hate the Autumn Ball so much, why do you care whether I go?"

It was time for a pivot; he was becoming far too annoyed.

"Do you know how Ladonna said she hasn't kissed Buster on the lips?"

"Still trying to forget it, actually."

"Oh, don't be such a prude. I asked Ladonna about it, and she rambled for a long, long, _long_ time before finally admitting she was nervous. Not nervous to actually do it—because, trust me, she really, really wants to—nervous because of what it signifies. She said it would mean the end of her friendship with Buster, and that was a pretty huge deal."

She gave Arthur a moment to mull it over while she devoured her food. He looked as if he hated to be thinking about it, but it was clear he was.

"I…don't see why they would have to stop being friends."

"That's not what she means, not exactly. Say two people jump from being just friends to being a couple. Obviously, they've crossed a line they can't cross over again because everything has changed. No matter what happens, they can never go back to that exact same point in their relationship without some serious history between them. That's what she's nervous about, especially if things don't work out. Get it?"

"Um, maybe."

"She's not wrong to be weirded out by it. Maybe Buster senses it too, and that's why he won't make the move. There's a lot for them to gain, but there's also a ton to lose. This is exactly why Catherine doesn't date her guyfriends. She tried to in high school, so sure that Sean or Eric or Adam was _the_ one, that they'd last forever, get married, start a family, yadda, yadda, yadda… But not only did it not work out with those guys, things changed between them and Catherine, always for the worst. She and Adam had a breakup so bad it affected her entire friend group. Mostly, she and the guys just weren't able to talk like they did before. Catherine hated it, so she decided that it was too risky, too dangerous, and she vowed never to do it again, period. She said it's one of the best decisions she's ever made. So now do you understand what I mean?"

"Yeah," Arthur said quietly. "I think I do."

_I'm not so freaking sure._

Francine licked her fingers and placed her plate in the sink while Arthur reached for her script and held it out to her. "Ready to try again?" he said.

"You know what? Screw it." She took the script from him and dashed to the couch, where her open schoolbag sat, and stuffed in inside. "Alex is right, the chances are slim."

"But he still studies all of Harold's lines," said Arthur.

"Good for him."

"Even if you're stressed, you should still learn the part. Even when I'm stressed over a new piece, I still practice the piano. I mean, Dr. Fugue will fire me again if I don't practice, but my point still stands. The more you learn, the less stressed you'll feel."

"Or I could just eliminate one of my stressors."

"But Francine—"

"Let's face it—Alex runs a greater risk of replacing Buster than I ever will of replacing Fern. I'm done with killing myself over trying to be a decent Marian when I should put all my effort into being the best damn Mrs. Shinn there ever was."

From her bag she withdrew her real script, with Mrs. Shinn's parts highlighted in blue, and held it out to Arthur.

"But I need your help. Can you do that?"

_To be continued…_


	10. Team Hot Mess

Tuesday afternoon saw Alan and Muffy waiting at the front desk of Haute Vernis, Elwood City's trendiest high-end nail salon. Haute Vernis was one of Muffy's favorite places to frequent, or so she had told Alan quietly on the journey from MCM. Too preoccupied with whatever she was doing on her phone, she had barely spoken beyond that. Now that they were here, her excitement had not seemed to pick up, not even when Serendipity emerged. An aardvark woman dressed in red ripped jeans and black heels, long and straight platinum hair strung in a ponytail high atop her head, she greeted them with a blindingly-bright smile behind glossy red lips.

"Muf-fee!" She sang out, stretching her name emphatically to sound like two distinct words as she rounded the white marble counter to give Muffy a hug. "Whatcha been up to, girlfriend?"

"Oh, you know," Muffy said after pulling away, "the yoozh. I've got someone with me, if you have an opening? I promised Alan here a relaxing afternoon."

"You're in luck," said Serendipity, smoothing her white smock bearing the Haute Vernis name, stitched in silver. "Maisie's cousin started here last week—a real up-and-coming talent, and I'm not just saying that because she's my best friend. Clients have been _raving_. I'll just have him prep the chair next to yours. Give us two seconds."

Serendipity was off, heels clacking on the shiny gray tiles as she left, and Alan and Muffy were alone again. Muffy wandered over to the left side of the lobby, and Alan followed, mostly out of not knowing what he was supposed to do, but also because he found being separated from her in a place so foreign to him unsettling. They passed a purple velour sofa with silver accent pillows and came to a stop in front of a massive display of nail polish bottles that seemed to occupy the entire wall. While Muffy considered the collection of purple hues, Alan read the color listings, taken aback by what he saw. Most of the names listed under the bottles had nothing to do with the color inside them, and were often sexually suggestive when they did. He stood with his fingers clasped behind his back, thankful he did not have to hand over a bottle labeled "Spank Me Red" or "Orgasmic Onyx," unable to meet his tech's eyes. Alan wondered what he had gotten himself into. This was a whole new and surprisingly-intimidating world, and he figured this would be his first and only excursion into Haute Vernis. If not for his commitment to hashing things out with Muffy before the day was over, preferably before they began their tutoring session, he likely would have rescinded his commitment and read his driver's manual for the hundredth time in the comfort of the limo cabin. He would take the test Saturday morning, and he welcomed the extra study time. As it stood, he had to do his best to change the trajectory of their friendship, which grew more anemic as time passed. It would take courage to step in and do it the right way, but step in he must.

"I usually peruse the entire color selection," Muffy piped up, "but that would just be a formality today. I think I know the exact one I need." She plucked a bottle of light and smoky purple from the display and held it out for Alan to see. She continued in a tone that was not as enthusiastic as it normally would have been when speaking on the subject of color coordination, "Lilac Lush—the perfect shade to offset Lola's aubergine gown."

_If you say so_ , thought Alan, knowing nothing about Lola's allegedly-iconic purple dress. "Lilac Lush" was a comparatively conservative name, and Alan appreciated the restraint.

"Um, cool," he said.

"We're ready when you are, guys!" Serendipity called from the counter.

"Ready?" Muffy said to him.

_No, but let's do this._

Alan nodded and followed Muffy once more.

The salon was even showier than the lobby. The walls were the same deep shade as the purple sofa out front and trimmed in white crown molding. At the center of the recessed ceiling was an ornate and modern chandelier comprised of sparkling crystal beads. Hundreds of swagging bead strings extended from the chandelier to the ceiling's ridges, and the space above them glittered with thousands of tiny spheres of light. R&B played at a respectable volume, one of Usher's soulful ballads, and the air was scented with a mélange of various clients' perfumes and colognes, heavy but not wholly unpleasant. To one side, clients sat getting manicures at upside-down U-shaped tables that appeared to be made of white marble, though Alan doubted they were real. On the other side was a row of elevated easy chairs in gray leather, and at the foot of each sat a large white marble basin. There was one pillow for each chair made of the same purple velour as the sofa, each embroidered with "Haute Vernis" in silver thread. A few clients, all women, sat at either end of the row, receiving pedicures from their respective techs while reading magazines or scrolling through their phones. A young rabbit woman with long brown hair, looked up from her copy of _Allure_ to eye Alan curiously as he and Muffy passed, making their way to their chairs, which were dead center of the row. As Serendipity told them to get comfortable and disappeared again, Alan stared down at the churning water in their basins, aglow with a changing rainbow of colors from a light somewhere within its depths. He contemplated it for several moments before Muffy interrupted his thoughts.

"Take off your shoes and roll up your jeans."

Alan turned to see that she had already stepped out of her flats and was sitting in her chair, pulling up the cuffs of her leggings. He hastily did as she asked, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. As he rolled up his jeans, he heard Muffy sigh in relief as she placed her feet into the water.

"Boy, I've missed this," she said.

Alan climbed into the chair to Muffy's right. The leather was plush, but opposite of what he had expected, it was not cold. He settled into the warm, soft cushions willfully. Muffy must have caught his surprise.

"Heated seats," she said. "Don't you love it? And that's not all they do…"

She reached over and pressed a combination of buttons on the panel next to the chair's cup holder. Alan's chair hummed to life, and it felt as if invisible knuckles were working their way up and down either side of his spine, massaging out his remaining yoga soreness.

"Oh, wow," Alan said, louder than he would have if not taken off guard.

"I know," Muffy said.

"Wow," Alan said again as the kneading grew more intense at his knotted shoulders.

"I know…"

A young male monkey sporting a trendy spiked haircut dyed in a striking combination of electric blue and black stepped in front of Alan's chair, giving him a wave and a smile.

"Hi, Alan. I'm Jax. Serendipity tells me you've never been to Haute Vernis before, so welcome! Now, here's a menu. Just soak your feet for a bit, and I'll give you a minute to look while I grab you two some water, okay? Lemme know if you have any questions."

"Will you bring Alan a hot towel for his face, please?" Muffy called after him. "Thanks!"

"A hot towel?" said Alan. "Is that customary?"

"No, but I'm a very loyal client. And Daddy owns the building. Do you know which pedicure you're getting?"

Alan glanced over the laminated menu Jax had given him.

_Private Beach?_

_A Night in LA?_

_Smexy Deluxxxe?_

While not as bad as the polish, the names given to each manicure did nothing to aid his decision making.

"I don't know where to begin."

"Just select one from the menu."

"Okay, but the terminology still eludes me. I may as well be deciphering cuneiform. They intend to rub brown sugar on my feet?"

"It's more like turbinado sugar, actually. Might I suggest the Smexy Deluxxxe? It's pretty much the works. Ask for it when Jax comes back."

"Do I have to call it that?"

"You could always just point to the menu."

"And they spelled 'deluxe' with _three_ Xs…" Alan muttered.

Muffy giggled, the first time Alan had heard her laugh today. "It's going to be okay, Alan. Don't forget to soak your feet. It softens them up for the callus grater."

Alan paused, one foot hovering above the basin. "Is that anything like a cheese grater?"

Muffy smiled and motioned for him to continue, and Alan sank one foot, then the other into the warm, bubbling water, matching Muffy's relieved sigh.

" _Wow…_ "

" _I know…_ I still can't believe you're doing this with me, Alan. It's so craz— It's just not what you're known for."

She looked to her lap, practically squirming from her perceived gaffe. It had taken a while, but Muffy eventually opened up this afternoon, kidding around with him, laughing and acting more like her normal self. And now, once again, she thought she had made a faux pas, and she might shut down for the rest of the day because of it. Alan took a slow, deep breath. He had to stop this. He began in a voice that was gentle, hoping Muffy would not mistake his concern for anything but.

"There's no need to walk on eggshells around me, Muffy."

As expected, she gave a nonchalant wave of her hand, though she still refused to look him in the eye.

"Don't be silly. That's not what I'm doing. Um, not that I think you're silly."

"I know…I know about the _Noob's Guide_."

The look she shot him was easy to read: _How?_

"The other day, while you were in the bathroom, I saw it, sticking out of your bag. I couldn't help myself—it was just so _orange_. I was curious and sneaked a peek. I'm sorry, I really wasn't trying to snoop. Please forgive me."

She said nothing but looked as if she were thinking hard about what she should say.

"I'm not trying to justify it, but I'm glad I found it. I would have had a lot of questions about your recent behavior otherwise. I feel as if you're…afraid to talk to me. Really talk to me, that is. Are you?"

Muffy shook her head, but it was not an answer to his question.

"And I thought I was being so discreet, so smart about it. I guess I kind of... _am_ afraid. Not of you. Just afraid that I'm going to get it wrong. This is the part where you tell me I got it wrong anyway, isn't it?"

Alan cocked is head to one side, considering her words.

"Ohmigosh, I knew it. I'm crap at this. You deserve better. I was trying to be better, I swear. I thought the _Noob's Guide_ would help me. There is so much I didn't know, about what you might be going through... And then I looked back on the times I tried to push you and make you do things because I was so sure it would help, the times I yelled at you…"

"If I'm being honest," Alan said, not bothering to hide the smirk that formed, "I've...missed that side of you."

"But the guide—"

"I know. I got a copy and read through most of it last night. And while it contains some helpful advice, it is just a book, Muffy. Everyone is different. Some might prefer a more delicate hand from those around them, and that's valid. As for me? Watching you be anxious about all this…makes me more anxious in turn, which kind of defeats the purpose. You're not crap. You never were. Maybe you were a little too bossy sometimes, but I think I vastly prefer a flawed Muffy over a Muffy who polices herself into barely speaking to me. That must be valid, too."

"But last week—I told you I wasn't going to pressure you into going to the Autumn Ball. I got that idea from the guide, and you agreed with me. The flawed me pressured you into going to my Halloween party. If I hadn't read the _Noob's Guide_ , that same flawed me probably would've tried to pressure you into going to the Autumn Ball. How am I supposed to know if I'm going too far?"

"How about a deal? Just be yourself, and I'll let you know if something makes me uncomfortable. I won't take it personally if you don't, and we'll work around it. We're both learning, working on ourselves. I know it's hard sometimes, but maybe we should leave some space for forgiveness, for ourselves as well as each other."

Muffy looked uncertain.

"My dad has a saying," Alan said, "'It really doesn't need to be as complicated as all that.' I just want my friend back, Muffy. I've…missed you."

"Omigosh, stop," she said, reaching across again to swat him on the chest. "Seriously. You're going to make me cry…" She wiped the corner of her eye with her thumb. "I've missed you, too, you big, nerdy softie."

That felt nice to hear.

"Also… You can talk to me, too, about whatever is bothering you. It's not a burden, and it's not a waste of my time."

"Thanks," Muffy said. "I really do appreciate that, but I promise this is nothing you should worry about. Not even a little. Maybe I'll tell you later, once it's all over, so you can get a good laugh out of it. Maybe I'll laugh about it, too. One day…"

Perhaps whatever was bothering Muffy was just too embarrassing for her to admit. That she was talking about it earnestly in such a manner was encouraging, and Alan did not sense that she was in any sort of danger. A relief.

"Fair enough," he said. "Just remember that confidentiality can be a two-way street. Nothing leaves the cabin." He offered his fist to her. "We can hardly be Team Hot Mess if we don't actually function as a team."

"You're right," Muffy said, eyeing his hand with a wide and pretty smile before bumping his knuckles with hers and blowing it up, "it _does_ sound a little weird coming from you."

_To be continued…_


	11. The Interview

Tuesday’s rehearsal had been going well, or so Fern thought. Abrupt silence cut through the middle of her duet with Ladonna, indicating Maria had halted the number because she had major critiques. It was probably Ladonna’s ghastly attempt at an Irish brogue. She wondered why Coach Sorrell and Maria indulged her and did not ask her to drop it for the benefit of everyone’s ears. Ladonna, who was playing Marian’s mother, had just sung out:

“When a woman has a husband and you’ve got none, why should she take advice from you? Even if you can quote Balzac and Shakespeare and all them other highfalutin Greeks.”

Arthur stopped playing the piano before Fern could sing in defense of Marian.

“Marian, lose the scowl,” Maria said to Fern. “Th-that’s your mother you’re debating. You’re annoyed with her, b-but you don’t _hate_ her…and I’m not sure I agree with your choice to clench your fist like th-that.”

Now that Maria mentioned it, Fern realized she was clenching her fist, and clenching it hard. Her hand hurt. Surely she was better than this, more professional.

Before rehearsal began, Buster had swiped a couple of chocolate chip cookies from the snack table, one for Ladonna and one for himself. Buster tossed pieces into the air in uncharacteristically graceful arcs, and Ladonna tried to catch them in her mouth. Ladonna took turns after him, lobbing pieces at Buster. There had been cheers at their successes, mirthful laughter at their failures. Fern caught herself staring at Luster, even though she had sworn she never would. It had been a hard battle to unsee it, to forget the happiness on display.

_You’re supposed to be able to set your emotions aside and play the part._

She surreptitiously massaged the deep purple indentations her fingernails had left in her palm with the thumb of her opposite hand. It was a battle she was losing.

“You’re right,” Fern called back to Maria. “Sorry.”

_Get it together. Be in the moment._

A lot was riding on her ability to play the part, and that did not strictly apply to her role in the school musical. Saturday would be here soon enough, and she needed to keep a cool head as well as keep up a flawless act. If she allowed herself to crack, her plan could fall apart yet. 

It had taken forever for break to come. Thankful for the respite, Fern loitered in the hall outside the auditorium, wishing not to join the others until it was absolutely necessary. Where the cast announcement had been, an advertisement for the Autumn Ball was now pinned to the corkboard, right next to a copy of Sue Ellen’s hand-drawn poster for _The Music Man_. Similar adverts for the ball had been plastered in several locations around the school, in various sizes, all promising fun, refreshments, and a live DJ.

Meaningless.

Fern stared vacantly at it as she reviewed her escape plan list. Unless she was mistaken, all she needed was a spare jacket, preferably a thinner one to allow for maximum mobility, and her hiking boots, but she would need to double-check the physical list in her locker to be sure. She prided herself on being more careful by not keeping the list at home where her mother could potentially find it. That was one thing her mess-up at the Baxter cottage had taught her. She would be sure to think of everything this time.

A loud and confused voice said, “Yo, Fern?”

She turned to see Francine, leaning halfway out between the auditorium’s double doors, looking impatient, as if she did not have the time to step out into the hallway.

“Did you forget?”

Fern winced. It was time for her _Frensky Star_ interview. She had forgotten.

“Sorry,” Fern said, but Francine had already slipped behind the doors again, in too big a hurry for an answer. Her apology died in the empty hall. “Be right there…”

* * *

“Interview with Fern Walters, playing…Marian Paroo,” Francine said into her voice recorder.

Francine had once again set up her interview station in the back row of the auditorium. Her open backpack was in the fold-down seat between them as Fern sat, turned to face her with a rigid spine, hands folded in her lap. Francine faced Fern, only she was curled up, feet in her chair, her question-filled notebook propped against her knees as she extended the hand holding the recorder across her armrest in Fern’s direction. Fern ran her thumb over the fingernail dents, still present though not as deep, noting how much more comfortable and at ease Francine looked than she, Fern, felt, and she hoped this would not be a long interview.

“Thank you, Fern. Now, as some might be aware, you’re no stranger to the stage. You’ve been in countless productions. How would you say this one differs from others you’ve taken part in?”

To Fern’s understanding, the piece Francine was attempting for her blog was an in-depth look at what goes into putting on a production like _The Music Man_. Since she had the most acting experience among her peers and could offer a unique take on the subject, this was a very good question to ask. Not a bad start. Now all that was left was to feign interest.

“Well…” Fern said thoughtfully, “it’s a school production, and those aren’t nearly as well staffed. Fewer adults are involved. The budget is smaller, too, though Elwood City as a whole has benefited from Mr. Crosswire’s affinity for the arts, so I won’t complain too much.”

She forced a small chuckle that Francine did not reciprocate.

“That being said, I think everyone is doing a stellar job.”

_Ladonna’s fake accent notwithstanding._

“The cast is great, the crew has gone above and beyond, and any production, school or otherwise, would be lucky to have a choreographer as talented as Binky Barnes.”

“Uh-huh,” said Francine. “And being in multiple productions means you’ve been through many auditions. What set the auditioning process for _The Music Man_ apart from the others you’ve gone through.”

Fern supposed this was a valid question and potentially something in which an uninitiated reader might be interested. It was unfortunate that her answer was a boring one.

“Honestly, not a lot. I’ll refer back to my previous answer and say fewer adults?”

Fern gave another, more apologetic laugh. Francine remained nonplussed.

“Take us back to that day. What was going through your mind that Friday afternoon, when you went on stage in front of Coach Sorrell and everyone else? Were you nervous? What were you hoping to achieve?”

There was something off about Francine’s tone now. It had grown different from when they had begun the interview, flatter…

_Accusatory, maybe?_

Whatever it was, it made Fern uneasy.

“I suppose I was a little nervous. It had been quite a few months since I had performed on stage, and acting really hadn’t been on my mind during that time—"

“Would you say you lost your passion for it?”

“No, I wouldn’t say _that_. I have other passions. I’m also a writer, which can be demanding. I took a hiatus to pursue a project. Once I finished, I decided to dip my toe back into acting, hoping to get a small role in the fall production. I felt rusty and really wasn’t expecting much, but I like musicals and thought it could be fun.”

_I thought it might help shut my mother up._

“But you didn’t get a small role, did you?” Francine said. “No chump-change part for Fern Walters. What’s it like to land the lead in a musical after an audition that was—how did you put it—a disaster?”

_There it is…_

Perhaps she should have expected this from Francine Frensky. Of course she had not been able to let it go, not even after she had grown quiet during rehearsals.

“I see what’s going on here,” Fern said calmly.

She stood. Francine looked up, following her movements with a curious gaze, though the recorder remained outstretched. Fern snatched it away from her, so quickly that it caused Francine to jump in her seat. She hugged her knees as she stared up at her, nervous, perhaps anticipating an outburst akin to the one Fern had treated Buster to in the Sugar Bowl not long ago. It had, after all, been legendary. But that was not going to happened today. Fern had to keep her wits about her and complete her missions. Francine was insignificant when stacked against the other challenges Fern faced and therefore not worth threatening in front of Coach Sorrell and the rest of The Not Ready for High School Players. Still, that did not mean she would not give her what for. Fern held the recorder close as she spoke in a quiet voice that wavered as she fought to keep it even, enunciating every word.

“You want an answer? Here you go: I know my audition was awful. I know yours was much better. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry Coach Sorrell chose me over you. I’m sorry I got a role I neither deserved nor wanted. And I’m sorry this one thing has derailed your life, Francine. I mean, it’s not as if you aren’t already a popular, outgoing, multitalented star athlete or anything. You really could’ve used a shot in the arm to boost your self-esteem and enrich your life, and I’m just the worst for taking it away from you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so _damned_ sorry. Quote me.”

Fern clicked the recorder off and dropped it into the open mouth of Francine’s backpack. She did not need this; she would go to her locker and check her escape plan list instead. Breezing past Francine, Fern caught the girl’s hissed curse as she retreated, an admonishment to herself for making such a boneheaded move. She was almost to her destination when Francine caught up with her.

“Fern!” Her voice grew louder, bouncing off the lockers as she exited the auditorium’s branch hallway, the very same hallway Fern would sneak into Saturday afternoon, if everything went according to plan. “Wait up!”

Fern turned and waited. She was not in the mood for Francine’s excuses.

_“Sorry about that back there. I’m an A-hole, but hey—at least I’m a self-aware A-hole. Blah, blah, blah…”_

Or something to that effect. Regret was evident in Francine’s plea, however, and Fern decided to give her a minute and gain at least a tiny amount of satisfaction from watching her squirm. 

“I— That was a douchey thing to do,” Francine said, catching her breath.

She was becoming predictable. Fern eyed her up and down, noting her desperate eyes, creased brow, and sagging mouth.

“Agreed,” she said flatly.

Francine stared at her, taken aback.

“No one wishes I had found a way to drop out of this thing more than I do, Francine.”

“I know. Your new book… I’m sorry, okay? Sometimes I get butthurt and I can’t help myself. I rot. And I don’t wish you had dropped out. If you want to know the truth…you’re killing it. Even though your audition sucked, you’ve been a great Marian. You’re going to—”

“Break a leg?”

_That’s what everyone keeps telling me._

“You’re going to kick ass. That’s what I was going to say. What you said in the interview, about everyone bringing it? You’re right. This production is going to be amazeballs.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Are you okay?”

Francine looked genuinely concerned.

“Peachy,” said Fern.

She did not look fully convinced.

“Oh-kay... We have time to finish the interview. There’s only a couple of questions left. No more bullcrap, I swear.”

Fern walked past her, heading back toward the auditorium, resisting the urge to massage the tension building in her neck.

“I’m really not in the mood. I’d rather save it for another day and focus on getting this one over with, if it’s all the same to you… George!”

Fern nearly ran into him as she rounded the corner.

“I’ve been hoping to talk to you,” he said with a smile, braces gleaming under the hallway fluorescents.

George was looking better after his run-in with the Wells Fargo Wagon. He suffered two black eyes post injury, and Fern had been impressed with his rapid recovery.

“I keep applying this arnica gel stuff my mom gave me,” he had told her a couple of days ago, when his black bruises were mottled with purple, “and I’ve been icing it as much as I can. Hopefully I’ll look a lot better in time for the Autumn Ball. Maybe. Can’t hurt, right?”

Today, all that remained were fading purple bruises near the creases of his eyes, which made his smile look happier than it had in days. Fern could not care less how George looked for the Autumn Ball, but she was glad he had not been severely injured. As a plus, that meant he was still up for being her date, about which he still seemed enthusiastic. She stopped in the middle of the hall to listen to him as Francine carried on toward the auditorium, looking dispirited over the interview she had blown for herself.

“I’ve got a question,” said George.

Fern had no desire to answer another question.

“Okay.”

“What are you wearing to the Autumn Ball?”

“A dress,” she said after a long pause.

“Yeah, but describe it. That way, I’ll know if what I’m wearing is good enough.”

“It’s long, it’s magenta, and it’s hideous. That about sums it up.”

“So…black trousers and shoes?”

“Or a lime-green tracksuit. It really doesn’t matter.”

George looked stunned by her response, but his voice was sympathetic. “Are you all right? What is it—are you still mad at your mom?”

“You could say that. I’m sorry, George. I’ve got a lot going on, and I really don’t feel like discussing the ball right now. We’ll do it later, okay?”

“Um, sure. I know you’ve been working hard, but at least we get a break tomorrow, right? I mean, I don’t. I’ve got committee stuff for the ball and work to do on Alan’s chessboard, but I could push _that_ back if you want to talk about it at the Sugar Bowl.”

“Can’t. I’m going for a run with Jenna.”

More accurately, she would get in one final training session before she made her way up Raccoon Hill, one last go before she conquered her Everest. And after dinner tomorrow night, she would spend some quality time with _Danger Girl_ and her word processor. With little free time and energy to spare, she had fallen by the wayside in her newest endeavor. Kelly was still in the warehouse, still staring down at the boot print, while the rest of Fern’s manuscript remained in her trusty notebook. She could not wait for tomorrow.

“Oh,” said George. “Then how about—”

“I’ll text you… Better yet, don’t listen to me. Go with whatever you like. It’s all good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’m not my mother. _I’m_ not going to dictate what other people wear…” And she left George in the hall.

Break was over. As Fern hurried down the aisle to get to the stage, she saw that Buster and Ladonna were still horsing around, having resumed their absurd little cookie game. She turned her head away from them and tried to focus on the goals ahead of her as she climbed the stage’s stairs, unaware she was clenching her fist again.

_To be continued…_


	12. Don’t You Know Who I Am?

_2003_

Chip's phone rang while he wandered around his room at Omega Psi Phi Monday night, from his closet to his chest of drawers to the open duffel atop his bed, lazily packing for his upcoming trip home for Thanksgiving weekend. His first thought, first hope, was that it might be Lexie Thompson, the hot blonde from Theta Alpha, hitting him back. Lexie had been hooking up with Todd from Gamma Gamma Mu, but she had been quick to hint that was no longer the case when Chip chatted her up at a party Saturday night. He had plugged his number into her phone after making out with her, and they had been quick to meet up on Sunday. And this afternoon. He had texted her minutes ago, asking her to call if she was free, aching to get with her one last time tonight before leaving Florida tomorrow. He frowned when he saw that, instead of Lexie, it was his father, then he gasped, realizing he had forgotten his promised phone call.

His father had sounded disappointed when Chip informed him of his recent speeding ticket, which Chip found surprising. More surprising still was the fact his father could do nothing about it.

"You'll have to pay the fine," his father had told him matter-of-factly over the phone. "Make that _I'll_ have to pay it. And make sure you show up to get it done. You can't let it slide or forget it like with other things. This isn't a missed exam, Chip. Understand? You got caught speeding through a work zone. Call me when it's paid off, so I'll know for sure you didn't forget."

His father's uncharacteristic sternness had been jarring enough for Chip to commit the due date to memory, even though he had used his Portolex's calendar feature to help remind him. Chip had paid his citation this morning, on time and with his father's money, but he had forgotten to call his father, and his father had not sounded amused when Chip joked that he was worrying too much.

"I hope you've learned a lesson from this, son."

"Yeah," Chip said, rolling up his swim team tee as best he could with one hand and stuffing it into his duffel. "Try harder not to get caught."

There was a pause. Lexie could call any minute, and Chip wished his father would wrap up the call, but he had a feeling he would not be so lucky.

"Well, yeah. There's that. Always. But more importantly, your takeaway should be that Tallahassee isn't Elwood City."

_Fricken great, he's in speech mode._

His father could be long-winded while in speech mode, especially when he talked about family or the family business.

"The Crosswire name means something around here, different things to different people, and that affords us clout, with privileges and advantages others will never have. And that's a good thing. Right?"

Speech mode or not, his father had a point. A ticket like the one he had just paid off never would have happened back in Elwood City. Chip's lead foot had gotten him into trouble several times before. Usually, it was because some rookie did not know who he was. Less often, it was because he had been snagged by a seasoned, unwavering hard-ass, bound and determined to stick it to him. Whatever the case, nothing had ever come of his encounters with law enforcement. One call from his father, and all citations seemed to dissolve into thin air.

Chip held the receiver away so he could sigh. "Right, Dad."

"Even _so_ ," his father continued, "there are limits, and our clout should be respected. Even _here_ in Elwood City, we Crosswires have to toe the line sometimes, if for no other reason than to uphold our reputation. You can't act like a fool all the time and not expect people to think you're one. Right?"

"Right."

His response was automatic, but Chip was taken aback after the fact by his father's word choice. Fool? Was that what he thought of him? Surely not. Crosswires were not fools. His father was just being rhetorical, or whatever. But Chip could not help the small, hollow sensation in his stomach at the notion. His father went on.

"What do you think happens, the more distance you put between yourself and Elwood City?"

Chip had an idea what happened, but his father answered before he could even try.

"I'll tell you what happens: your clout diminishes, shrinks until it's nonexistent. Something maybe you should've thought about when you chose to go to school so far away. No one knows who you are in Tallahassee, and that means you've got to toe the line all the time. Right?"

"Right."

Why was he going in on him like this?

"Of course I'm right… You know I only want what's best for you?"

He did. Chip knew it because his father told him that all the time. So he had to believe it.

"I know, Dad."

"All right, then. A thousand dollars later, and your ticket's all paid for, but the rest is on you. You've still got three demerits. I can't fix that for you, and I can't prevent your license from being suspended if you get too many. Then you'll have to say "goodbye" to the Porsche. You can't have the best if you screw things up for yourself."

"Yeah… I get it. Thanks again."

"Don't rack up any more fines, and that'll be thanks enough. I'll see you soon. Remember to arrive at your gate early. And don't lose your parking deck voucher again. Twenty-two dollars a day is already highway robbery without the added fee."

"I won't. And I'm driving to the airport right after class, so I'll be there in plenty of time. No speeding," he was quick to add.

Chip was about to sign off, fighting the niggling feeling that facing his father this weekend would be a least a little awkward after their exchange today, when his father spoke one last warning before ending the call.

"And change into something proper for Thanksgiving dinner, better than the Lacoste polo you wore to Doré," he said, speaking of the restaurant at which the family had dined during Chip's last visit. "Your mother didn't say anything, but I could tell she was let down… Have a good flight."

* * *

_Present day_

The dashboard clock read 1:11. Chip exited Tarver Ranch and Rescue in the pitch-black Wednesday morning, resisting the urge to roll down his window at the front gate and flash a playful peace sign to Janice Tarver, who would undoubtedly notice both his arrival and departure when she skimmed the security footage later that day. But it was cold outside, and he did not want to spoil his car's toasty interior. Instead, he left Catherine's apartment sleepy, satisfied, and eager to get home to Belmont and go to bed. Longing for extra sleep before the workweek ahead of him, he pressed the gas pedal more firmly. The highways were pretty much desolate this time of night, and he could take advantage of that. The faster he went, the sooner his head would meet his pillow.

He came upon him too quickly to do anything about it. Two miles out from the ramp, a sheriff's deputy sat, parked underneath an overpass, lights off. The reflective gold star on the cruiser shimmered in Chip's high beams, and he instantly knew what was coming next. Blue and red flashed in his rear-view in a near-blinding strobe, and Chip, defeated, slowed down so he could pull over.

The deputy had caught him, fair and square. He had been doing over eighty-five in a sixty-five. Chip reminded himself of this as he waited, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Still, he did not desire to shell out extra money right now, not after dropping hundreds of dollars on the ultimately-useless Splendor of Light tickets, and especially not after the financial burden he was about to take on so he could give his girlfriend the gift she truly deserved.

_Just take your lumps and watch your spending for the next few weeks._

Easier said than done with Christmas around the corner. His sister had certain expectations.

_Maybe suck up to the Waterfront guests a little more. Should I start flirting again?_

Though once employed chiefly as a tactic to help inflate his income, Chip no longer flirted with female guests out of respect for Catherine. It was a self-imposed policy to which he strongly adhered, but if it meant his survival, he might be able to get past the skeevy feeling flirting gave him.

_Only if things get desperate_ , he decided, and his thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the deputy at his window.

The deputy, a young and fit aardvark man, announced himself as Donaldson.

"The reason I pulled you over," Donaldson said in a cadence that sounded monotone yet somehow screamed authority, "is because I clocked you going eighty-seven miles per hour in a sixty-five-mile-per-hour zone."

Donaldson left Chip to wait again after demanding his license and proof of insurance, and Chip was lost to the mental math of figuring out how much this ticket would cost him. It had been ages since he had been stopped for speeding. He had learned the hard way to toe that particular line. It seemed as if hardly any time had passed before Donaldson was back, a sheepish smile that looked weird on his previously-impassive face, sounding apologetic.

"All right, Mr. Crosswire, I'm going to let you off with a warning tonight. I just want to make sure you're being safe out here." His voice softened even further. "I apologize for not recognizing you at first, sir. I'm pretty new to this office. But I have heard a lot about your work. I actually hoped I'd get to meet you some day—just not like this, heh-heh… My first car was from Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood, by the way…"

_Oh, god. He's not letting me go because he knows I'm a Crosswire—he actually thinks_ I'm _the big guy. Gross._

Screw that.

"Yeah, you've got the wrong guy," Chip said, emboldened by Donaldson's affront. "And look—I know I was speeding and I shouldn't have. I've done it a lot in the past, believe me. So just give me the citation, and I'll be happy to pay it. It's the only way I'll learn."

Donaldson stared blankly at Chip before bursting into laughter that was obviously forced.

"Chief didn't tell me you were funny, too! You have a good night, sir," he said, then added before walking away, "We sure appreciate all you do…"

Chip sat in his car, stunned, until the frigid air blasting through the still-open window reminded him to roll it up and get moving. The cruiser was still parked behind him, Donaldson apparently waiting for him to leave first.

"The hell…?" Chip muttered, still grappling with what had just happened, as he put his car into gear and eased back onto the highway.

Donaldson followed behind until they reached the next exit ramp, and then he took it, possibly to circle back to his original post while Chip stewed, his hopes of a good night's sleep dashed. He continued to Belmont, angry for the first time in his life, that the big guy had gotten him out of a speeding ticket. In Elwood City, the Crosswire name meant just as much as it used to, maybe even more.

_To be continued…_


	13. Fern After Dark

Fern walked from her house to Jenna's on Wednesday afternoon, her boots on, loaded schoolbag strapped to her back. She had added a couple of books to it before leaving, an approximated five or six extra pounds. This would be her last training session, the closest thing she had to a dress rehearsal, and she had to make the most of it. The thin plum-colored scarf as well as the denim jacket she wore were the same ones she planned to don before escaping the Autumn Ball. She had not buttoned her jacket; every spare second would count Saturday, and not wasting time on buttoning and unbuttoning could make a huge difference in how her tight schedule played out. Besides, there was no need to button. The air was cold but not unbearably so, and the weather pattern was expected to hold until early Sunday morning, when things would take a turn. Another smattering of snow was expected for the area, though unlikely to amount to much. Fern silently thanked the perfect conditions and the mercy they showed in not throwing a wrench into her plans. She had to pay attention to every single detail this time, to be prepared for everything.

Stealth and luck and preparedness were huge factors that guaranteed her plan smoothness, but the speed in which she would travel was crucial. That was why she had weighed herself down when she ran, to make sure she was strong enough to travel at a quick pace while inconvenienced, and she had become stronger with every practice. By her estimation, she could travel the distance up Raccoon Hill under current circumstances in little over fifteen minutes. Once the burden was shed and the only weight she carried was her own, she would fly. She would make it back in a timely manner, long before her father came to pick her up.

_I'll owe George a dance when I get back, for being a good sport_ , she reminded herself. George would certainly be a good sport. He always was.

When she made it to Jenna's, Fern was surprised to see that she was not the only one sporting an odd form of dress. Jenna was wearing running gear suitable for cold weather, but what stood out was the harness, made of black and spongy material, that crisscrossed her torso. A small plastic rectangle, neon-green in color, was clipped to the collarette of her red tunic. Jenna giggled when Fern opened her mouth to inquire about her getup. She must have looked as curious as she was.

"It's a weighted vest," Jenna said, tucking her thumbs under the shoulder straps and looking proud. Then she began rambling, as she often did when excited about fitness. "I thought I'd take a page from your book since it seems to be working out for you. I've wanted to get into triathlons for a while now. When you smoked me in the sprints last week, though, I realized I need to up my game, like, yesterday. It's not as, uh, hardcore as your method, but I think it's going to help me train—oh, and so will this little guy..."

She gave the green rectangle a couple of taps with her index finger.

"What is that?" said Fern.

"It's a GymMaster, an interval timer. I got it Saturday afternoon when I got the vest. I just program my interval durations into it, and it beeps whenever it's time to switch from one to the other. So handy—I don't have to check a stopwatch or keep time in my head. I can just be in the moment."

"Be in the moment…" Fern murmured to herself.

"Yeah. I don't know how I lived without it."

"You program intervals into it? What's the duration limit of one interval?"

"I don't know for sure. I've only used it for HIIT training so far. Tabata. Have you ever tried Tabata? It's so cool."

"But if you needed an interval longer than, say, fifteen minutes, you can program it?"

"Oh, for sure. I know it'll go longer than that."

"Interesting…" Fern mused. "Well, I have to know more about this thing. Let's put it to the test!"

Jenna unclasped the GymMaster and plugged in their interval times, several for alternating between jogging and sprinting.

"Let's start the warmup," said Jenna. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"Okay. Three, two—"

They both froze when Fern's phone rang in her jacket pocket. Fern groaned softly when she saw the screen.

"Hi, Mom," she answered pleasantly.

"Fernie, where are you?"

"I'm on a run with Jenna."

Her mother should know this. Fern had reminded her this morning. Was she checking up on her again? Fern pointed to Jenna, hoping she would get the hint and back her up.

"Hi, Mrs. Walters!" Jenna sang out cheerily.

"Right, right. Well, I need you to wrap it up. I got a call from Flora just now. Your dress is ready, and we need to get over there for a final fitting. I must steam the wrinkles out before I leave for the expo, and I can't do that unless I know everything is perfect. Okay, honey? So tell me where you are, and I'll come pick you up."

Fern told Jenna to take off without her, utterly depressed upon hanging up with her mother. Wrap it up? They had not even begun. So much for having one last practice.

Fern ignored the magenta menace, now hanging on her bedroom door. Her mother had steamed the garment after dinner, and she had instructed Fern to hang it in here, making sure it would dry, making sure it would not crease again before Saturday. She pointedly added that, since she would be leaving for the Franklin Realtor Expo Friday afternoon, she would not be there to touch it up. Though pristine now, the dress would gain plenty of creases after piling up in her dressing room floor, but Fern would explain them away as a product of all the dancing she had done, just as she had explained her leggings and denim in lieu of proper running attire this afternoon.

"I wanted to make it home before it got too dark," she said when her mother had asked, "so I didn't take time to change."

It was nearly midnight, and Fern sat at her desk, quietly adding to her _Danger Girl_ manuscript from her notebook, which was propped open against her desk lamp. She was still on the warehouse scene, but she did not like what she had written on paper. After noticing the boot print then hearing approaching footsteps, Kelly was supposed to call out and ask if someone was there. Fern wondered what she was thinking when she had written that. No way would Kelly do something that careless. Not wanting to get caught, her better option would be to turn off her flashlight and hide, obviously. But where? As she considered Kelly's possibilities, Fern took a break to browse the web, ending up on Facebook. This was hardly what she would call being in the moment.

_Eh, I'm tired. Once I figure this one detail out, I'm going to bed._

Fern scrolled. Muffy wanted everyone at MCM to remember that the Autumn Ball was in three days and they should definitely find a date soon. Prunella had been busy, posting once about how rewarding it was to teach yoga with a closing "Namaste", and again when she wished Marina good luck in her upcoming meet. Francine had uploaded some photos with the blurb: "BTS look at The Music Man! More to come soon! Check out The Frensky Star!" There were three photos of Arthur reading his sheet music and playing the piano. It would seem Francine had realized her collection needed more variety, for she had rounded things up by throwing in one featuring a visibly-frustrated and wide-eyed Binky on stage, pointing at one of the player's marks and…one of Buster and Ladonna, making faces of exaggerated amazement at George, who held up one of the Wells Fargo Wagon's wheels.

Fern quickly averted her eyes and checked her messages. She had new ones in her group chat with Allison Davies and Omar Kashif, members of the Elwood City Wordsmiths, a writers' group to which Fern had briefly belonged. And it looked as if they were both online.

**So, what's your new story about, Fern?** Allison had written.

Omar had added, **Yeah, you said you were cooking up something bloody this time around.**

Grateful for the distraction, Fern was quick to answer.

**I don't want to give away too much,** she wrote, **but the protagonist is an urban explorer named Kelly who investigates the murder of her boyfriend and exploration partner. He disappears without a trace, only for his body to turn up in the last abandoned place they explored together.**

Nearly a minute passed before Allison responded first.

**Any romance?**

**A little.**

**Hot and heavy?**

Omar joined the chat with, **I don't think you can ask a 14-y-o that, Allie. When can we get our hands on it?**

**It's coming along rather slowly** , Fern wrote. **I've got this dumb play at school. My mom is making me do it. But I should get going on it again pretty soon. What have you guys been up to?**

Occasionally, Allison and Omar kept Fern up to date on the Wordsmiths gang, the members she liked, at least. Last week they had recounted the birthday party they had thrown for Smitty and how they had surprised him with Black Forest cupcakes, his favorite, at the end of the meeting. Tonight they explained that, although the group had managed to form a sort of bond and enjoyed each other's company, they had to find ways to cope with the Wordsmiths' founder, who could be hard to take.

**The group gets together once a week after it's over** , Omar wrote.

**Half of us** , wrote Allison. **Tamara, Omar, and me.**

**We'll hang at Stardoe's, usually, and talk. It always leads to us letting off steam about Lucas.**

**We basically shit-talk him after every meeting. Not going to lie. It's so cathartic, though. Makes the meetings much better. Funnier in hindsight. We've started calling our trio "Wordsmiths After Dark".**

**Oh, no** , Fern wrote. **Is Lucas back to his old ways?**

**Yes and no** , Allison wrote. **He's nice enough to us, but you should hear the way he talks about himself.**

**Omar: More show, less tell, my man.**

**Allison: Seriously. There's no storytelling in his excerpts, just summarizing at length. White room syndrome, no depth, and no real characterization.**

**Omar: The characters might be the worst of all. Lucas writes everything in the exact same voice. All the characters sound like the narrator, not helped by the fact that they repeat the same things the narrator just explained, verbatim. So redundant. They have zero personality.**

**Allison: That's not entirely true. The nasty people beat you over the head with their nastiness. Everyone else may as well be made of wood.**

**Omar: Wouldn't be so bad if he weren't so pretentious and serious about it.**

**Allison: He actually refers to his stories as "fictional landscapes". Can you even? He really thinks he's creating pieces of high art.**

**Omar: And let's not forget length.**

**Allison: How can I? He won't stop talking about how long his works are, like some guy bragging about his member. It's like, dude, stop telling me how big it is and prove you know what you're doing!**

Fern was not sure she understood that last part, but she was eating this up. She wished she were old enough to hang out with Allison and Omar outside the internet. Friends who understood the writing life were hard to come by. Plus, they had tons of fun dirt on pretentious jerkwads. She knew it was petty, but it was entertaining to hear about the madness of the Wordsmiths meetings without having to suffer Lucas in real time.

**Omar: He's becoming an absolute blowhard, now that you're gone and his chat with Smitty has worn off. It's kind of like when the popular kid is out sick for a week and the second most popular kid steps up and thinks he's the man.**

**Allison: I was thinking he was more like the self-important retail manager all the employees secretly hate, but that works. Are you sure you don't want to come back, Fern?**

**Omar: Yeah, I'm sure we've really sold her on it. It might shut him up, though. You never know.**

Fern knew they were joking about her return, but she felt compelled to reiterate that the chances of that happening were slim to none. Before she began typing, however, she sat back and thought about it for a moment, what might happen if she rejoined the Wordsmiths. The last time she was in a meeting she had been unsure of herself, and she had allowed Lucas to rip _The Secret Keeper_ , her newly-completed manuscript, to shreds. That was before she had heard from Ernesto Del Rey, a respected literary agent. She wondered what it would be like to attend one of the Wordsmiths' meetings now with new information, new self-esteem, and reinvigorated confidence in her writing. Could it be fun, just to try it? Could she sit in long enough to submit a portion of _Danger Girl_ , by far her most gruesome tale, for peer critiques? Just let Lucas try to dismantle this one. She would not scurry away like a frightened rodent this time. She was certain he would have harsh sentiments for her new book, but she would not let him skewer her and have the last word. Fern would retort, and Lucas would not know what had hit him when she did.

" _Oh, you think_ Danger Girl _is a mess, do you? Another one of my travesties? It's too bad Ernesto Del Rey disagrees with you. Who's that, you ask? Nobody, really. He's just the agent who discovered Stephanie Bachman, that's all. I got a letter from him, actually, telling me that he likes my work and that he knows I'll only get better. So, if I were you, Mr. Bearer-of-Bad-News, I'd take your lousy, ignorant criticisms and shove them—"_

**Allison: Still there, Fern?**

**Omar: Yeah, where did you go?**

**Sorry, you guys! I ran downstairs to get something to drink. I was going to tell you not just "no" but "hell, no". After careful consideration, however, it sounds like you all are having way too much fun without me. After the play is over, I might be in.**

This was the most fun Fern had experienced since sneaking into the hospital morgue. _Danger Girl_ would have to wait tonight, but that was no matter. It was still in her trusty green notebook, waiting for her. She would get back to it. After all, she would need something to present to her peers come December. The thought of sticking it to Lucas, the way she had stuck it to Francine yesterday, was the highlight of an otherwise disappointing day. She wrote on:

**Tell me more about your fearless leader.**

_To be continued…_


	14. Baxter for Hire

"So I was thinking…" Muffy said to Alan on Thursday morning. Inspiration had hit her, and she could not resist walking over to his locker and teasing him. "How about we switch things up a bit during tutoring this afternoon?"

Alan, who had just hung his coat, smoothed out the sleeves of his burgundy sweater and turned to her with an impressed, "Oh?" A look of great interest played across his face. "I'm open to new ideas if you have suggestions. What do you have in mind?"

"Since your exam is coming up on Saturday, you should put me in the driver's seat for a change, and I'll quiz you on the manual. And yes, the pun is intended."

She was speaking of Alan's learner's permit exam. When Alan realized this, his interest faltered. "I can't do that, Muffy," he said apologetically.

"Oh, come on," she said, poking him gently in the shoulder. "What's the matter—afraid I'll stump _you_ for once?"

"I felt adequately stymied in Haute Vernis," he said, glancing down at his sneakers and shifting his weight from foot to foot without lifting them, "so there's no need for you to strive for that particular goal. My feet still slide around inside my socks. Is that normal?"

"Yes. Great, isn't it?"

"Ah… Thanks for offering, but I doubt your dad would approve of paying an exorbitant fee for you to help me study instead of the other way around. On an ordinary day, I might be up for it. But today? It would be—"

"Let me guess: unethical?"

"Yes. Exactly."

Muffy grinned. "So professional, Zen Master… You know I'm only playing?"

Alan smiled back with genuine amusement, authenticated by the twinkle in his eyes. Muffy knew it was something he had never been able to replicate while faking for others.

"I guessed," he said, "but one can't be too sure with you. You have big ideas, and you're very persuasive."

"Aww, you're pretty awesome, too. And you can stop studying, period. You've been reading that manual for weeks."

"One must plan for—"

"—important events in advance. But this one's in the bag. You and exams are a classic pairing, like peanut butter and jelly, or Louboutin and Chanel."

"I'll take your word regarding that last one," he said, lifting his heavy schoolbag from the floor and swinging it over one shoulder. "See you later…"

Alan shut his locker and waved goodbye before taking off for homeroom. Muffy went back to her locker to grab her things and prepare for the day. She took her Infinity from her purse and paused at her reflection in its mirrored screen, taking a moment to tuck a flyaway strand into the plait of her fishtail braid. She would be lying if she said she was not tempted to check her messages. Not knowing was killing her. What if she sneaked her Infinity into the bathroom and checked them, just to make sure? There were only two days left.

_Two days! Come on, boys, what's the freaking holdup?_

Muffy sighed, wishing Alan could return and give her a pep talk. She had never uttered a word about her desperation to him. He would be disappointed if he knew what was going through her mind this very moment, risking her wager with her father.

_Maybe not_ , she reminded herself. She remembered his recount of trying to break into his locked shop, remembered how he had begged Prunella to come through for him at the second séance. _He's been there. He's been desperate, too._

And he worried about her. Should she have told him what was bothering her? It would be nice, having someone who understood listen to her…

She dropped the Infinity back into her purse when she heard a loud voice nearby, afraid someone would rat her out and that she was done for. The voice turned out to be Ladonna's, and she was hurrying down the hall to catch up with Buster two lockers down. Muffy had not even noticed his arrival. Though moving quickly, Ladonna looked down this morning, trepidation weighing her normal smile into a tight line, and her pace slowed as she drew closer to Buster. What was this—trouble in Lusterland? Muffy pretended to rummage through her purse while Ladonna began, not fighting her desire to know more.

"I've got some good news and some bad news," Ladonna said to him.

Buster gasped, and Muffy could see in her periphery that he clutched a copy of _Teen Health and Wellness 2_ to his chest. "Chickin Lickin' burned down?" he said, panicked.

"No," said Ladonna. "Wait—what possible good news did ya think could come out of that?"

Buster shrugged. "I dunno. I've just always had an irrational fear of Chickin Lickin' burning down, so I try to stay prepared. What's going on?"

"Well, the good news is Gussie is gettin' married. He and Amanda—his fiancé, you see—are havin' a small ceremony at the nature center pond near the university. She's a real autumn lover, kinda like me, and it's supposed to be really scenic there, so that's nice… Anyway, it was a big ol' whirlwind thing, and now we're all travelin' to Virginia so we can attend it. I mean, Mama and Dad think it's too soon, but Mama also says the heart wants what it wants…so we're gonna be there to support him."

"That's…great," Buster said hesitantly, "but what's the bad news?"

"Ya mean besides the fact that this is all happenin' way too fast for a guy still in college? The weddin' is this weekend, I'm afraid."

"Oh… Oh."

"I know we said we'd go to the Autumn Ball together, but this really can't be helped. It's a Compson family affair. I'm sorry."

"No… No… That's okay."

"You look…disappointed. Aww, were ya actually lookin' forward to it?"

"Maybe just a little," Buster said. "Yeah, I was. I was working on a surprise for you, but… It's fine."

"That's sweet of ya. Well, ya can still give it to me when I get back. I'll be home before Monday mornin'. It's not like I'm movin' to Oregon or somethin'…"

Muffy watched as the two strolled away, Buster assuring Ladonna that he was not upset and he would occupy himself with video games until she got back. She never thought she would see the day Buster Baxter would be heartsick over not having a date for a school dance.

_At least someone is still going to want him once the ball is over. Good for him, I guess._

As depressed as that thought made her, Muffy could not let it go. She did not realize it yet, but the wheels had already begun turning. She powered down her Infinity and left it in her locker, the temptation to jeopardize her freedom inexplicably diminished. She was ready to tackle school; subconsciously, however, her Crosswire mind was hard at work.

* * *

"No!" came a distressed cry that was unmistakably Jenna Morgan's, interrupting Muffy's internal pitch rehearsal while she changed into her street clothes after PE. When she looked to Jenna, the girl was ripping her gym bag apart, tearing item after item out of it in a frenzy and tossing each one onto the wide concrete bench.

"Where is it? I know I packed it this morning, and now it's gone! How?!"

Her voice echoed off the locker room walls. All the girls, in various stages of dress and undress had stopped to stare.

"What are you looking for?" said Muffy. "If it's your toiletries bag, feel free to take what you need out of my locker. But be careful with the perfume. Just spritz and walk."

"It's not that," Jenna said, still emptying her gym bag of its contents, her voice growing higher. "My GymMaster is missing."

"Come again?" said Muffy.

"She's talking about her interval timer," said Fern, who had just tied her boots. "She uses it to train. It's green and a little bigger than a matchbox. Are you sure you packed it today, Jenna? Maybe you just forgot?"

"I didn't forget. I packed my bag this morning, and I put the GymMaster on top of everything inside the bag. Now it's gone!"

"Jenna, it's okay," Sue Ellen said, stepping in, her voice soothing. "Do you know how sometimes, when you're all worked up, you can overlook what's right in front of you? It happens to me too. Just take a few seconds to calm down, then try searching for it again."

"Yeah," said Muffy. "Maybe it just fell all the way down to the bottom of your bag."

"My bag is empty." said Jenna. "I threw everything out of it already. _Where_ did it go?"

"Retrace your steps," said Fern. "Think of every place you've been since packing your bag. Go to the office, too, and report it. If you want, I'll go with you. Maybe it'll turn up in the school's lost and found. It's bright green. No one would miss it if it's just lying around."

"Well…okay," Jenna said, looking defeated though still upset.

She hurriedly began shoving her things back into her bag, likely so she could make it to lunch on time. It was clear she was disheartened by the loss of her prized possession. Muffy knew a bit what that was like, and so she felt for her, but she needed to get a move on. She was eager to make it to lunch as well, for that was where she intended to put her plan into action. She needed to engage at just the right time and implement the right words, and maybe she would get by with help from a friend. She thought about her Infinity, still in her locker. Maybe a boy had come around, and maybe he had not. She could not wait around anymore, hoping for a date to fall into her lap. She would simply make things happen for herself. Alan was right—she had big ideas, and she could be very persuasive.

* * *

Buster walked up to the cafeteria window to deposit his empty tray. Save for an apple core, there was not much leftover to dump, but he did his part. He turned to exit, nearly crashing into Muffy, and he was grateful she was not holding a tray, for it would have spilled all over her. Muffy gave a tiny "Oof!" of surprise and stumbled back a couple of steps.

"Oh! Sorry, Muffy. Please don't beat me!" he said in exaggeration, shielding his face with his arms in a block position.

He had not really expected her to beat him, but he had at least expected her to grumble a "Watch out!" or "Hey, look before you turn!". Instead, Muffy smiled pleasantly at him.

"Don't be silly, Buster," she said with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "I'd never hit you. It was an honest mistake."

Buster froze. "Okay, what do you want?"

Muffy's face fell.

"It was that obvious, huh?"

"Classic Muffy Crosswire," he said with one simple nod.

Muffy gave a rueful you-got-me smirk and said, "I need to talk to you in private. Hallway?"

She gestured to the door and took off without checking to make sure he was following after her. Curious, Buster left the cafeteria in pursuit of her. Once they were out of the doorway, she spun around and Buster stopped as well. Her fingers were laced in front of her. She must have been at least a little nervous, for she began to fidget, rubbing her thumbs together.

"So, I'll just jump right into it," she said in a forced, professional manner. "Will you go to the Autumn Ball with me?"

Buster opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, confused. "You know you're talking to Buster Baxter right now, right?" he said after a moment.

"Yes," she said, sounding put upon that he was not taking her seriously. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Oh, you know I'm gonna," he said. "I don't know if you know this, but I kind of have a girlfriend."

"Oh, yes, I'm aware, Buster. Everyone is aware because you two are so showy. But I also know that Ladonna will be in Virginia this weekend, which means you are conveniently available."

"Muffy…" he said, trying not to crack up, "I'm flattered, I really am, but I am a committed man."

"I don't want _to_ date you. Believe me, that's not what this is. I just need _a_ date. Understand?"

"I recall you saying that you wouldn't go to the Autumn Ball with me, remember? You narrowed it down to a choice between that dude from _Deadlight_ , that dude from _One Tree Hill_ and not me. Were those guys busy or something?"

"Oh, I was pissed off then," Muffy said. "I didn't mean anything by it. Please?"

"Why me?"

"Because it's perfect, don't you see?"

"Not really.'

"Ohmigod… I'll level with you." As if they were not already alone in the hallway, Muffy lowered her voice. "No one has asked me to the Autumn Ball yet, and I'm starting to get kind of nervous. Make that really nervous. I've already bought my dress, and I've been looking forward to this. I don't want to be the girl who didn't get a date to the school dance. I don't want to be there alone, just standing around and drinking punch by myself."

"But I have a girlfriend."

"That's why it's perfect that I'm asking _you_. There are absolutely zero strings attached to this. We go as friends, dance, hang out, and then we go home."

Buster tried to assess Muffy's motivation. There was desperation in her eyes. He honestly did not think she was attracted to him or after him in any sort of romantic way. Maybe she was just afraid of being lonely. Maybe she was just afraid of looking foolish. Still, it felt wrong to take her up on the offer, in more ways than one.

"This doesn't feel good," he said. "Before Ladonna and I got together, I wasn't even sure I wanted to go to the Autumn Ball. Without her, I just don't see myself getting any enjoyment out of it. Maybe someone else will say yes if you ask. Sorry, Muffy…"

Buster left her for his locker. He was only a few paces away from Muffy when she spoke up again, her voice pleading.

"I'll pay you!"

Buster turned. "You're prepositioning me? Like I'm a prostitute?"

"It's 'propositioning'. And _nooo_. All I want is some company and maybe one dance."

"That kind of sounds like a prostitute to me. I think they're called male escorts, and that makes you my John, or whatever they call lady-Johns."

"I can't believe you're saying this to me right now," Muffy groaned. "Look—you're on the fence about going with me because you're with Ladonna, right? You'll feel like you're betraying her in some way. But if I'm paying you, it's like a job you have to do."

"I don't know, Muffy. Working on a perfectly good Saturday…"

"How great would it be if, when Ladonna gets back from Gussie's wedding, you could make up for the time you lost together by taking her out on a nice date. And from the amount I'm willing to pay you—trust me—it can be a very, very, nice, nice date."

Buster was torn. He remembered how much fun Ladonna had when he surprised her with a joyride at the Ingram Flight School. He remembered every gasp, every laugh, every "ooh" an "ah" and the way her eyes had sparkled, bright with happiness. It sure would be nice to experience all those things once more, to make her feel that way again. Maybe he would even work up the courage to kiss her. That would be very nice. In fact, it would be very, very, nice, nice, for the both of them, probably.

"Is this a trick?" he said, still unsure.

Muffy frowned at him and clasped her hands.

"No, I promise you that my word is my bond. What do you want, something in writing? Do you want it notarized? Half upfront? I'll do anything, Buster. Just please help me."

"Okay, okay. I believe you. You're on. We have a…da-ate." He pretended to gag on the last word.

"Oh, shut up," she said. "You mean it?"

"Yep. When you pay me, can I get it in singles so I can roll around in it like in that movie?"

Muffy smiled. Her whole body seemed to relax, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "As long as I'm not there to see it, you can do whatever you want with it. Great. Thank you, Buster. I'll be in touch."

"You got it, Johnny," he said with a salute.

Muffy pressed her lips together. "You're going to call me that for a while, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah. I'll probably wear it out."

_To be continued…_


	15. The Pilot

_1992_

Tonight would change her life forever. That was what the bone-deep, unshakable feeling meant. It had nothing to do with the cold and torrential rain, nor did it have to do with her soaked ankle boots and jean cuffs. Destiny awaited. It was in the air, along with the condensed odor of stale cigarette smoke that always hung around the pub's entrance, whether or not anyone was outside, lighting up. If her source came through for her—and he had not let her down thus far—this could be it; she would have a new lead in the story she had been chasing, and she would be one step closer to knocking her editor's socks off. Stories like this one and the opportunity to tell them had sparked her desire to become a journalist in the first place—a real journalist, and she would show Phil just how much of her potential had been wasted on penning puff piece after dull and tedious puff piece. From there on out, her career would be devoted to spotlighting the seedy underbelly of this city. It was her raison d'être. If only Elliot would hurry up and get here.

Bitzi Spencer had been shivering out here for over ten minutes, taking refuge from the weather under O'Shaughnessy's green awning. The rain had let up, but that was not saying much, for it still came down hard, assaulting the sidewalk, jettisoning from gutters and collecting into a rushing curbside current that eventually found its way down the grated sewer drains along the street.

_Maybe the storm held him up._

She drew a hand from the pocket of her leather jacket and checked her pager. Nine on the dot, and the last transmission she had received was from the convenience mart payphone Elliot had used to contact her. Before the page, Bitzi had planned on spending her evening editing, ordering Chinese, and checking in on _Cheers_.

"On my way into town from Wayunga," Elliot had said upon answering the payphone, not wasting time on a greeting. She had known it was him from his scratchy baritone. Perhaps owing to his lifestyle, it always sounded worn, well past his thirty-two years of age. "Got the goods if you got the time. O'Shaughnessy's in thirty. You in?"

Elliot had promised not to risk calling her again so soon unless he had real game-changing stuff to divulge. This was by far a more interesting way to spend her evening, and Bitzi had definitely been in. She grabbed a pen and small notepad and was out of her apartment in a flash, but not before changing into faded jeans with strategic rips in the knees and thighs, her Rolling Stones tee, and swapping her raincoat for black leather. Now she was here, waiting on him outside O'Shaughnessy's, a pub near Katzenelenbogan Airport, where the two frequently made transactions: Elliot would give her the dirt, and Bitzi would pay for his meal. A struggling addict, Elliot had been on a clean streak for many weeks now, and she was more than happy to contribute to his weight gain, hoping this time he would be able to break the cycle for good. The wind whipped at her legs, touching them with icy fingers through her holey jeans, and Bitzi decided to continue waiting for him and her destiny inside, where it was surely warmer. Before going in, she checked her appearance, reflected in the window of the pub's entrance, weakly lit underneath the awning. As advertised, her waterproof mascara had done its job, and the handful of mousse she had applied to her hair still held her damp locks in place, scrunched to tousled perfection. She looked like a bona fide wild child. Maybe she was.

Despite the domestic draft special, the storm had kept a lot of O'Shaughnessy's business home. Usually bustling, the lower level was practically deserted tonight save for a couple of occupied tables in the center section and a middle-aged same-sider couple canoodling in a corner booth. The place still smelled of smoke, wood polish, and fry grease, but Bitzi could actually hear the music overhead, loud and clear. It was Fleetwood Mac, "Seven Wonders". She headed to the bar, where it would be easier to keep an eye on the door. She waved at the bartender, a moose man named Drew, who waved back then went to work on her usual. The only other patron at the bar was a slim rabbit man, seated squarely in the middle. He was an airline pilot, by the look of him, dressed in a crisp, white shirt adorned with gold epaulettes. A small rolling suitcase sat in the floor next to him, and his jacket was draped neatly over the stool to his left. Bitzi took the next stool over and crossed her arms atop the bar, thanking Drew quietly.

"Your fella stood you up, eh?" Drew said with a smile as he placed the drink in front of her, dropping first the straw then the cocktail-skewered cherry in with a flourish. "Shame…"

"You know full well he's not my _fella_ ," Bitzi laughed as he walked away. "And he'll be here. He's just running late."

She glanced over her shoulder to confirm Elliot was still absent, then took a small sip of her beverage.

_Really late._

"Hey, I have that same exact shirt," came a voice.

Bitzi looked to see the pilot regarding her with a small smile. He seemed tired but friendly. And young. He could not have been more than a couple of years older than she, twenty-five, twenty-six at the most.

"You like the Stones?" he continued, appearing to be genuinely interested, ignoring his bacon cheeseburger and beer to swivel his stool slightly in her direction.

Bitzi quickly noted that Drew had placed a fresh pint next to the pilot's empty glass, a second round, and she could not help herself. "Dear lord," she said, half joking and half concerned, "please tell me you're not about to take off."

The pilot followed her gaze then chuckled. "Ha—no. Just touched down, actually. Landed in this storm. Everyone on board clapped, according to one of the attendants." He sounded so pleased with his success. He lifted his glass and eyed the amber liquid like a prize. "Not bragging, but I think I earned this. Then I'm taking a cab home. After eleven hours in the air, I'm ready for a nap. Also well-deserved."

Bitzi watched as the pilot took a long sip, savoring it in a blissful, eyes-closed kind of way.

"And where is home?" she said.

"You want an address?" he said, sounding a bit more playful.

"A general location, flyboy. A city? A neighborhood?"

"Oh… Belmont Heights."

"I'm guessing you're not from there."

He did not sound like it. His accent was subtle, but there was a softness in his Rs. New York, possibly Jersey?

"Born in Michigan but grew up in Albany."

"Really? I went to college near Albany."

"So…SUNY? Or Queensbury?"

"Queensbury," she said with a nod. "Journalism."

"Small world."

"Small world… Loved it there."

"Me too. I miss New York, but Albany especially. My favorite vinyl shop is there—Costello's."

"I've been in Costello's a few times."

The pilot's eyes lit up. "You collect?"

"Dated the owner's son."

"Anthony? He was a buddy of mine. Small world..."

"Small world…"

Bitzi was unaware that, caught up in this conversation, she had swiveled her stool in the pilot's direction, and the two strangers were now facing each other full-on.

"I can't believe this…" the pilot said, shaking his head. "So, journalism… You don't look like a journalist."

"And how does one look like a journalist?"

"It's just… I mean, the jeans…and the hair. I would just expect a little more…"

"I get it," she teased. "I left my fedora with the press badge sticking out of its band at home. Sorry."

He laughed, looking embarrassed by his ignorance. "Yeah, that would've been a dead giveaway… Well, can I buy your drink?"

"Nah, save your money. Besides, this is only ginger ale. I never drink on the job. The cherry is just for fun," she added before picking up the skewer and pulling the cherry off with her teeth. The pilot watched her chew, mesmerized.

"Working, huh?" he said in a far-off tone, steadily fighting to come back to his senses. "Like, um, journalism-type stuff? Wait—are you here incognito?"

"Major journalism-type stuff," Bitzi said. " _Elwood City Times_. I'm meeting someone who's been helping me with a story. If he ever shows up…" She had briefly forgotten about Elliot, and now she realized just how long she had forgotten about him. She looked to the door again; he was still a no-show. "He's never exactly been punctual, but he's also never been this late."

"Well, it is a rough one out there," said the pilot. "Cut him some slack. It's hard to travel, whether you're in a seven-forty-seven or a car. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of story are you working on?"

"Can't tell you," Bitzi said apologetically.

"'Cause…then you'd have to kill me?"

"No." She gave him a devilish smile. "Because I just can't tell you. I mean, I only met you ten minutes ago. For all I know, you also have crazy coincidental connections to the people I'm trying to expose. I may have risked my life talking to you as much as I already have."

"Hey, I'll have you know, madam, that I'm a very nice—"

"He's here!" she said, heaving a sharp intake of breath. "Finally."

Elliot Bobeck stood just beyond O'Shaughnessy's doors. Dressed in baggy flannel, drenched from the rain, the scrawny aardvark man looked like a reject from the Seattle grunge scene as he scanned the pub, looking for Bitzi. He caught sight of her, and she waved, calling out, "Grab a table—I'll be right there!" Bitzi turned back to the pilot, almost wishing she did not have to leave him. This had been fun, but she had a date with destiny. Inspiration hit her. She glanced at the pilot's left hand, making sure. No ring. That made sense. He probably would not be taking meals in a place like this before going home if he were married. She grabbed her pen and pad from her jacket and scribbled her phone number down hastily. She had never tried to pick up someone like this before, and yet she was doing it tonight without much thought or hesitation.

"Are…you going to be okay, alone with that guy?" said the pilot doubtfully.

Bitzi looked up to see that he had not taken his eyes off Elliot, who now stood by the booth in the corner opposite the necking same-siders. Her new acquaintance's friendly face had contorted, and his brow was now creased with concern.

"Him?" said Bitzi. "He's harmless."

She wrote a quick note to go along with her number:

_I don't know you, but I'd like to change that._

_Your move, flyboy._

She signed it with a smiley face and slid the note toward him.

"Good chat," she said with a wink. "Hope you get some rest."

Bitzi got up from her stool and grabbed her ginger ale, carrying it with her as she crossed the floor to meet with her most reliable source of information.

"You're killing me, Elliot," she said with exasperation, shaking her pager at him once she got there.

"Sorry, Bitzi," Elliot said, raking his fingers through disheveled, sand-colored hair. "I know what I said, but I had to shake a tail. Youse guys're in a hurry for this info, I know, but I can't let 'em catch on."

Bitzi thought about this while she took in his appearance, disheartened. His eyes were sunken with dark, reddish circles underneath. Had he really needed to shake a tail, or had he merely imagined that?

"You talked to Josie?" she said, pressing on.

Elliot nodded.

"And Stephens?"

"If I hadn't talked to Stephens, would I even bother showing up?"

She supposed he had a point. She nodded this time, indicating she understood what he was implying. Then, "When was the last time you ate?"

She was here to conduct business, but she could not help her sweeping concern for him.

Elliot's eyes shifted, then it seemed he forced them to meet hers as he told his lie. "This morning. Yesterday morning, maybe. I don't know, I've been sick."

He scratched his neck. Did he think she was naïve? Or did he know that she knew and was deflecting, his way of telling her he didn't appreciate her prying? Whatever the case, Bitzi ceased her questioning, satisfied Elliot was using again.

"Well, I'm glad to see you up and about, then. Come on. Tell me everything. And I'm not leaving until you've had some chili cheese fries…"

Elliot sat first and Bitzi followed, flipping her notepad open to a fresh blank page. In the soft yellow glow of the pendant light hanging above the table, she could make out the impression of the previous note she had written, the one she had left for her new friend. She caught motion out of the corner of her eye, and she looked to see the pilot, finished with dinner and leaving O'Shaughnessy's. His jacket now on, towing his suitcase, he paused on his way to look at her and held her note up, smiling softly before tucking it safely inside his jacket pocket. He gave her a small and tilted two-finger salute before walking out the door.

* * *

_Present day_

"What the—" Bitzi whispered sharply to herself in the Times breakroom Thursday afternoon. "Oh, dear lord…"

The microwave had looked like a murder scene upon opening it, its white interior splattered with orangey-red sauce, presumably, hopefully marinara. The microwave certainly smelled strongly of someone's last-night's spaghetti, and brownies, for some reason. This was not the first time one of the breakroom appliances had been abused or left defiled.

" _Adults_ work here, right?" she said to no one as she lathered up a dishtowel under the tap, wondering who the culprit was.

Harry was definitely out; it was his and Paige's anniversary, and he had taken a long weekend to celebrate with her. That still left quite a list of suspects. She would have to send Harry an email, keeping him abreast of what happened because they were definitely having a staff meeting about this tomorrow morning. The posted signs, the ones that said "Remember Your ABCs: **A** lways **B** e **C** leaning" and "YOUR MOTHER DOESN'T WORK HERE, SO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF" obviously were not doing the trick. The sauce only started to give once Bitzi really put the elbow grease to it, scrubbing vigorously. Did that mean someone had used it after the defiler, allowing it to bake on and harden? And they did absolutely nothing about it? Even her fourteen-year-old knew better than this, she thought, rinsing the towel out and leaving it to dry on the sink's divider.

"My fourteen-year-old _boy_ ," she muttered, punching the buttons on the mic to heat the lunch she had brought, leftover Alfredo.

Bitzi leaned on the counter while she waited, thinking about this. Buster had offered to help her and Bo clean up last night, but Bo had sent him upstairs, suggesting he finish his homework since it was getting late. She knew then what that meant. It meant Bo wanted to talk, one-on-one.

She had turned him down after Dr. Chen's Monday evening when he asked her for coffee, excusing herself with, "I'm kind of tired, if that's okay."

Bo had taken it in stride. "Okay," he had said. "Next week, it is, then. Same time, same channel."

"We're still on for dinner Wednesday," she quickly reminded him.

"Sure thing. Alfredo, right?"

Bitzi then drove home, wishing she could have gone with Bo. She had to start distancing somewhere, and giving in tonight might make it harder to do in the future. She had done the right thing, so why did it somehow feel wrong? And how much longer could she keep her mouth shut?

Their post-dinner talk had started out simple enough. Buster had introduced his father to a band called Clutch, and Bo floated the idea of purchasing concert tickets and surprising his son with a live performance. Bitzi thought that was a great idea, a nice opportunity for them to bond over something they both enjoyed, and she told him so. Her thoughts had drifted, though, somewhere in the middle of Bo's work anecdote, his voice fading away somewhere around Rick insisting Ingram Flight School offer birthday parties and how April was scrambling to figure things out with their insurance company. If Bo had said how the service would affect their rate, she had not heard. She had looked at him, wondering how she was going to tell him this had to end.

"And then, if you can believe it, my hair caught fire…"

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding at him blankly.

"I knew it," he said. "You're not listening to me."

"What?"

Bo had stopped talking, stopped cleaning the counter. He looked at her, the kitchen towel now balled up in his hand.

"Huh?" she said. "No, I'm listening. Birthday parties…"

"You haven't been yourself," he said. "Anything to do with what you were holding back Saturday?"

"You…you knew I was holding back?"

"I know _you_."

He did. She should have known he would pick up on it sooner or later. Bo was no stranger to witnessing Bitzi not act like herself.

"You can tell me," he said gently.

"I've been thinking a lot," she said after a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Are you happy?"

"Am… Am _I_ happy? You're worried about that?"

"I feel like…you swallow a lot for my sake. You always have, even if it makes you…unhappy."

Her eyes were stinging and she blinked rapidly.

Instead of answering right away, Bo tossed the towel onto the counter and pulled a chair out for her at the kitchen table, gesturing for her to sit. He took his own seat before he answered.

"I pretty much agree," he said slowly, "but I'm getting better at not doing that. That's what finally got us into counselling, remember?" He gave her an encouraging smile.

"So if something is on your mind," she said, "I can count on you to speak it? Because I want you to."

"Sure. Wait— Is there something I've missed?"

"I just need to know you're happy."

"Okay… Well, I'm not _un_ happy."

"What does _that_ mean?" she said.

Bo cut a glance upward, as if he were searching his mind for a direct answer. He shrugged. "I don't know, Bitz. It means what it means."

"Nonono—it definitely means _something_. So what's making you unhappy?"

"I just said I _wasn't_ unhappy—"

"But—"

"What's making _you_ feel guilty?" he said, concern rising in his quiet voice. "Tell me that."

"Bo— God…" Her breath hitched, and she was sniffling before she knew it. "I hurt you so badly, and I'm _so_ sorry."

She put her head in her hands. This was not exactly where she had been aiming, and yet she had ended up here. Apparently, it needed to be said.

"I know that," he said calmly. "You tell me that every Monday. Maybe not in those exact words, but… And I forgive you. Maybe I should've said it by now."

Bitzi looked up. "You do? Just like that?"

"After eleven years to think it over and weeks on Dr. Chen's sofa, I wouldn't say it's just like that. And before you ask, I'm not saying it because I'm afraid it'll eat you up inside. Life's too short to drink poison. I forgive you. End of story. Bitzi…"

He offered a hand across the table, and without thought or hesitation, she took it. To her, it was as warm and welcomed as a comforting hug.

"This," he said, motioning back and forth between the two of them, "what we're doing here and what we've been able to accomplish, is great. It's rough, but I'd take nothing for it. I get to see Buster all the time now, things are going well in my career…and I've got a bitchin' new ride..."

He paused so she could give a tearful laugh, thinking of Stella.

"I don't have any complaints. Things are better than they've been in a long, long time."

"What's missing, then?" she said. "What's the thing that would move the needle from 'not unhappy' to just plain 'happy'?"

"I'm…not sure yet. And that's the truth."

"Promise me something? When you find that thing, the thing that makes you happy—whatever it is, will you run to it? Don't hesitate. Run. It's what you deserve. Please?"

"I will," he said, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "Don't worry... I want that for you, too, you know…"

That was a relief to hear, and yet she still had not found the courage to break it to him.

"Hey, lady!"

Bitzi jumped at the smooth and familiar voice. She turned from the now beeping microwave to see Joel Noonan, leaning in the breakroom's entrance, a visitor's badge clipped to the pocket of his mustard-yellow trousers. A handsome fox with silvery curls, he looked confident and perfectly at ease for someone wearing such a bold choice of button-up, checkered with various autumnal colors.

"Joel!" she cried.

"Woah, didn't mean to scare ya," he said, laughing.

"Please, please tell me you haven't been watching me zone out for two minutes."

"Oh, no—did I miss something embarrassing? Do you talk to yourself? I do that, too, sometimes… Actually, I just got here. Thought I'd swing by and try to snag a lunch companion. I always feel a little awkward when I eat alone."

Bitzi smiled at him. "I don't believe you've felt awkward a day in your life," she said, taking her food from the mic. It was hot, and so she held it gingerly around the edges with her fingertips.

"How 'bout this, then? I was hoping to see a certain someone… But maybe I should've called. I can see you've already got lunch sorted out."

"Yeah, sorry. This is coming back to the office with me. Working lunch—conference call in about ten minutes."

"Exciting stuff."

"Oh, yeah," she said with playful sarcasm. "If it gets any wilder around here, we'll be the new Branson, Missouri. Believe me, I'd much rather have lunch with you."

Joel's jaw dropped. "Is that a fact? You're finally saying 'yes' to me?"

Bitzi hesitated, thinking about what she had just said, then she went for it. "Tell you what," she said, breezing past the curious Joel and out of the breakroom. "Why don't you show up at Café con Leche tomorrow, say around one-thirty, and find out."

She did not allow her knees to shake. Joel would probably watch her walk away until she was out of sight. She had finally done it. In accepting Joel's invitation, she had forced herself to confront Bo. Things were set in motion, and she would not be able to stay silent forever.

_To be continued…_


	16. Arthur’s Big Break

"Bubby wanted Catherine to come over for dinner tonight, and you know what she said? That she was already hosting dinner for her friends, Brett and Aaron. As if she has friends…"

Musical rehearsal had ended minutes ago, and The Not Ready for High School Players and crew members alike had left the auditorium and exited MCM's main entrance. The students who had not ambled home collected out front to wait for their respective rides. Arthur and Francine stood side by side on the sidewalk, chatting. More accurately, Francine had been talking nonstop since she packed up her interview station.

"Doesn't Brett work at Tarver?" said Arthur, scanning the parallel parking spaces in case his mother had arrived early. "She introduced us to him, remember?"

"Oh, right. Still, I doubt she's hosting a dinner party. Who wants to eat her lentil ragù and cashew Parm? You know what I think? I think she's banging Ben Grossman on the down low, and she's lying about it because she doesn't want people to know she made a huge mistake when she cut him loose—do you know he was studying to be a radiologist? She has so much pride it's ridiculous. That, or she just wants to make her life seem more interesting than it actually is. I'm sitting here like, 'Yo, that's what Facebook is for. Take a page out of Portia Demwiddy's book'."

Francine was being savage, but Arthur was not sure if she really meant half the jabs she made toward her sister. An insult from her could go either way, really, pure venom or veiled affection. He was not thinking too hard about it this evening, however. It had been almost a full day since Francine had brought up Sue Ellen, and he was content with listening to her chatter about how invested-but-not-invested she was in her sister's personal life.

"Anyway, speaking of Little Miss Perfect, has Sue Ellen asked you—"

"No, Francine," he said, and it had come out sharper than he had intended. He swallowed a groan.

_So much for peace._

He apparently had been an idiot to believe he could get by for just one day. Sucks to be him. Francine had been so relentless. Obsessive. Every single time he saw her, she needed a Sue Ellen report. And when he told her "no"—because the answer was always "no"—she wanted to know why.

"I wonder _why_ ," she said. "The dance is in two freaking days. Was she trying to fake me out, do you think? Make me feel like a dumbass? I swear if that's what she was doing, I'm going to be effing pissed."

"Well, _I_ swear I'm going to be glad when Sunday finally comes," Arthur said through gritted teeth.

"Why?"

"Because maybe, just maybe, we'll finally get to talk about something else besides Sue Ellen and whether she asked me to the stupid-ass ball."

His voice was shaking. Francine gaped at him. Arthur had even stunned himself, but he was having a hard time cooling his temper. He felt like a bottle of soda after taking a hard drop. He could burst under the frustration roiling inside him, building like unspent pressure. If he spoke again, twisted the cap even slightly, he would be uncontrollable, and things would get messy. Francine beat him to it.

"Well, there's no need to be mean about it," she said, sounding genuinely hurt.

"I'm being mean?" he said. "You're the one who's trying to boss me around!"

"Hey, look—I'm giving you my opinion, which is a very _sound_ opinion. And she came to me, remember? And you expect me _not_ to wonder why she never asked you, especially since she'd be lucky to have you for a date?"

"Fine," Arthur growled. "Whatever shuts you up…"

Arthur walked away, leaving Francine with a puzzled look on her face.

"Where are you going?" she called. "Arthur?"

He ignored her, searching the mingling crowd of crew members and Players until he found Sue Ellen, only she was not among them. She was exiting the school along with Fern. They halted their conversation to regard him with a mixture of confusion and alarm. Was he still scowling?

"Arthur?" Sue Ellen looked unsure, and Arthur flashed her a wide, fake smile.

"Hey, Sue Ellen," he said in a forced and almost maniacally cheerful tone. "Got a second?"

Sue Ellen nodded, likely unsure of where this was heading.

"Oh, good! I know this is late notice, but I was wondering if you would like to go to the Autumn Ball with me."

"Y- You?" she stammered. "You're…asking me?"

"Sure. Why not? I think it could be loads of fun. Doesn't it sound like fun to you? You are going, aren't you?"

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I think it could be fun," Sue Ellen mused. "It's kind of funny that you're asking me…" She looked a bit shy now, which was most uncharacteristic of her. "I was actually thinking about asking _you_ , only I wasn't sure if you'd want to…"

Sue Ellen's eyes darted away, and Arthur bet she had glanced in Francine's direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Fern, watching the scene play out with grim fascination.

" _Ha!_ That is funny! Looks like great minds think alike. So, you want to go together?"

"Sure. If you're going."

"Heck, yeah, I'm going! What time should I pick you up?"

Sue Ellen made a face. "Em…that's a social construct I really don't care about. Why don't we meet there, like equals? Is three o'clock okay with you?"

"Uh… Okay! Three o'clock! Cool… _Awesome_ …"

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, then he heard Buster's voice. "Um, Arthur?"

Arthur whirled around to see his best friend and Ladonna, both looking uneasy.

"What is it?" he said, grinning at them.

Buster threw a thumb sideways and said, "Our ride is here."

"Oh. So it is. Thanks. See you tomorrow, Sue Ellen…"

Arthur followed Buster and Ladonna as they all hurried to file into his mother's car, but not before he stopped to give Francine, who looked shocked, a meaningful glare, hoping she understood that he wanted her to eat dirt.

_To be continued…_


	17. Headshot

It was funny how quickly the course of one's day could completely change. It was a joke that was being played on him now, but Chip did not find it amusing in the slightest. Rather, it hurt, and it hurt a lot. And it was terrifying. He had been looking forward to this weekend. Weekends were the best days for tips, with Friday and Saturday evenings neck and neck for the most lucrative spot. Anticipating the hundreds of dollars he was sure to rake in over the next two days, Chip had dressed in one of his best and sharpest outfits, consisting of a gray trouser-vest ensemble and his favorite silk herringbone tie, powder blue, and he left his apartment with a spring in his step, not knowing that he would not return home for some time. He did not know that he would not make much money this weekend, nor did he know that thirty seconds would take him from looking fresh to death to looking like an extra in a Tarantino flick.

"Sarah and I had been married for thirty-nine years when she passed, and I thought that would be it for me. I figured I would never find another as good as she was, so I didn't even bother…"

Chip listened intently as he muddled mint and sugar together in a julep cup. He had just begun his Friday shift when this particular guest, a male monkey with a kind and grandfatherly face, took a seat at the lounge bar and asked if they still had Heineken on tap, assuring Chip he would rather be ordering something else, only he had a promise to keep. Curious, Chip had asked the man what he meant by that as he tended to the order. The man introduced himself as Bernard and went into his story about how he had met the love of his life.

"A year later, I came up here on a whim during summer," Bernard said, taking another swig and making a pained face. "Thought I'd vacation on Dominique Isle for a week or two, just to get away and clear my head. I took a ferry tour on my second day. That's where I met Andy. We sat next to each other on one of the stern's benches, and we couldn't shut up. It was like we had known each other all our lives. We would come to The Waterfront every evening, sit right here, drink beer and talk. We stayed in touch after we left… I didn't know it was what it was until one day…I did. I must have thought he felt the same, otherwise I probably never would've told him. But I did. Three months later, we made it official, or as official as one can make it in this state. He loved me, though, and that's what mattered to me most…"

Chip thought about this as he stirred the cocktail with his bar spoon. Years ago, he would not have given much thought to putting labels on relationships. It had taken reconciling how little he had meant to Lexie and, later, after several aborted relationships, realizing how much Catherine meant to him to alter his perspective on what it meant to have the privilege of calling someone his, the gift of calling her girlfriend, wife, whatever. Anything. He did not fully understand Bernard and Andy's plight for recognition, but he knew a bit what it was like to love someone with all his heart and still be met with resistance and how sweet it would be when the wall Catherine had put up finally came down. If it ever came down. Right now, he would even settle for an "I love you" from her.

"We knew we were a couple of geezers—we wouldn't have forever. We always said if we made it five years we'd come back here. But Andy fell ill… We didn't have forever, but we had three wonderful years together. Don't get me wrong—Sarah was a doll, and my boys are the greatest kids a man could ask for, but Andy was the light I never thought I'd get to see again. Before he passed, he made me promise. He said, 'When five years comes, go on, Bern. Go to the isle again. Go to the hotel and have a beer for me.' So here I am. He liked Heineken, but me? Can't stand it. I thought I'd do him the honor, though…"

Bernard stared out the wall of windows to the left of the bar, toasting the sunset reflected in the bay before draining what was left and placing the glass back down with a solid _thunk!_

"That's really beautiful, sir." Deftly, Chip placed the mixed drink in front of Bernard and smiled. "If you're looking for a palate cleanser, may I offer a Gloria's Julep? My own creation—summery, with peach and mint and a couple of secret ingredients, compliments of The Waterfront. To three wonderful years."

Free drinks were allowed, mostly to distinguished Waterfront guests, powerful people who got practically everything comped during their stay. However, a few exceptions were set aside for Chip to dole out as he pleased to guests he found deserving, a birthday here or an anniversary there. Bernard had remained loyal to his partner, his love, keeping his promise to him even after death. Andy had asked Bernard to do one thing for him, and Bernard had done it, and Chip could not think of anyone more deserving.

"Summery…" said Bernard. He eyed the drink fondly before picking it up. "I'll drink to that. Cheers, son."

Chip never got to ask Bernard if he had any other plans while he was in Erie. There was shouting and screaming coming from somewhere in the hotel, and it was growing closer to the lounge. Marcus, one of The Waterfront's pianists, abruptly stopped playing and listened along with the guests scattered throughout the lounge, who had silenced their quiet conversations to look around in confusion. A couple of them gasped when an aardvark man, who wore a slick navy suit and looked to be in his late forties, sprinted through the open entrance, tie sailing over his shoulder like a flag in the wind, mouth stretched in a silent scream. He made a beeline for Chip, not stopping until he slammed into the bar. The man reached out and grabbed Chip by his tie and yanked him forward until they were nearly nose to nose. The silver tie clip Chip was wearing popped off with the force, clattering onto the bar. In his periphery, Chip saw Bernard stand and back away from them. The man's graying black hair was soaked with something that smelled fermented, possibly wine.

"Help me!" the man gasped. "Hide me! Help me before—"

"EVAN! COME BACK HERE, YOU MISERABLE RAT BASTARD!"

"Oh, god…" the man, Evan, moaned.

He frantically tried to climb over the bar and out of his pursuer's sight but froze, one knee on the seat of a stool when the woman bellowed, loud and clear, "DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO HIDE FROM ME!" Evan gave up and eyed Chip with a pitiful expression and a whimper before turning to face the woman, who had just stomped into the lounge, not stopping until she had reached the halfway point between the entrance and the bar.

Chip got a good look at her over Evan's shoulder. Like Evan, the rabbit woman appeared to be in her late forties, though it was hard to tell. Going on the ultra-tight skin around her eyes and plump lips, Chip suspected lifts and fillers. The only part of her that did not look feral or disheveled in some way was her helmet hair, bottled-blonde with dark roots just beginning to present themselves, held expertly into place with copious amounts of product. Her eyes, heavily made up, were wide with unbridled fury. Her silk shawl hung limply over one shoulder, perhaps clinging to her with static alone. She had apparently ditched her footwear to give better chase, and there was already a run in the left foot of her dark stockings. She had pushed up the sleeves of her long and gray cashmere sweater dress, like a street brawler readying herself for a fight. In her right hand was her weapon of choice. It was a Champagne bottle, held by its neck like a small, green club. There was no cork in the bottle, which likely explained Evan's wet hair. It would seem she had chased Evan here from the hotel's restaurant, but only after dousing him with the bubbly.

"Admit it!" she screamed.

"I— I don't know what you're talking about. She's a client—I already told you! I was having a meeting with her."

"And I just bet you buy all your clients, the people who are supposed to pay _you_ , two-hundred-dollar bottles of Champagne! Is that what you do at all your little meetings?!"

"Rachel, baby, it's not what it looks like! I swear, I—"

"Tell that to the PI I hired to follow your sorry ass! He's been watching you for months, Evan! I have _photos_!"

"I…" said Evan, blubbering, on the verge of tears. "Well, I…"

"You told me you'd never do it again," Rachel said more quietly and in a hoarse voice that, to Chip, sounded hurt to the bone. "You promised!"

"Please… Honey, I have a problem. You know I—"

"DON'T! Don't try to make me feel sorry for you! Did you feel sorry for me?! EVER!?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I did?"

Rachel let out a primal scream and threw the bottle at Evan with the speed of a pitcher and precision of a ninja, only it did not hit Evan. With quick reflexes, the man ducked, and the bottle clipped Chip at the top of his forehead before he had time to react. Chip saw a flash of light and felt instant, brain-piercing pain as he stumbled back, crashing into the shelves behind the bar and taking several expensive spirits with him as he dropped to the floor, smacking the back of his head on the counter as he fell. There was more pain. There were shrieks and gasps from guest in the lounge, but Chip could hardly care. He was in for one hell of a headache for the rest of the night. His ears rung, and everything wobbled in his vision. Bottles lay strewn around him, some having just rolled to a stop. Some had spilled, and the scent of mingling liquors was strong. Something red had splashed on him, seeping into his shirt and tie.

_Must be the Luxardo cherries_ , was the addled thought he came up with. _That's not coming out. Dammit._

"I'm a doctor! Call 9-1-1 and give me the phone!" Bernard called out, and the man was behind the bar now, grunting as he knelt beside him with a handful of cocktail napkins. "He's injured!"

"What—no," Chip slurred. "I'm good. I'm good. I got this…"

To prove his point, Chip scrambled to his feet in spite of Bernard's protests. Or he tried to, at least. He couldn't seem to get beyond all fours. He was so dizzy; his head hurt so much. He pressed against the floor, trying to lift his weight, and something red splattered on the back of his right hand. Then he knew; it could not be the Luxardo juice. It was far too bright.

"Please, son, you're bleeding. You need to stay down."

"I'm… I'm…"

Chip could barely register the commotion that was going on in the lounge.

"Don't put your hands on me!" cried Rachel from somewhere out of sight, beyond the other side of the bar. "I came to talk to my husband and now I'm leaving! I said I'm _leaving_! Let me _go_!"

Her voice was growing more distant. Had security finally caught up with her?

"I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT, EVAN! I'LL SEE YOU IN COURT, AND I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU HAVE! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

Chip sat in the floor again, and Bernard helped ease him against the bottom cabinets so he could rest.

"You're a doctor?" he said dully.

"ENT," Bernard said. "Retired. You hang in there, and we'll get you some help."

Before Bernard's napkin-filled hand blocked his view, Chip saw that he was covered in blood.

" _You hang in there…"_

He remembered the last time someone had said those words to him. He had nearly died then. Was he going to die now? Surely not, or else Bernard would not be so calm and steady. But he was a doctor. Was that not how they were supposed to behave, cool and collected in the face of death? He wanted to ask if it was serious, but he was afraid of the answer, and a woman had just reached over the bar to hand Bernard her cell. When he heard the man speak the words "head trauma victim" to the 9-1-1 operator, however, Chip could no longer say anything at all. Panic was creeping into every fiber of his being, and he was steadily becoming paralyzed with fear.

_To be continued…_


	18. One Unheard Message

"Have a good rehearsal, honey?"

Fern's father had picked her up from MCM on Friday evening, and she was delighted and relieved to see his car pull up to the curb for a change, to see him behind the wheel upon opening the door.

"It was great," she said to him. "Everything went smoothly. Very, very smoothly. I couldn't be more prepared if I tried."

"Attagirl!"

Fern relaxed in the passenger seat, silently congratulating herself on a job well done on all accounts. She was pleased with one account in particular, the final step in her carefully-executed escape plan preparations, which she had completed before leaving her dressing room five minutes ago.

Most of the cast were relegated to two large backstage rooms for makeup and costume changes, separated like boys and girls locker rooms, only these rooms housed makeup tables and mirrors, hanger rods and wooden cubby holes for storing street clothes and personal effects, and several changing stalls made of tall, thick curtains, alternating in MCM's school colors of royal blue and gold. The curtains were not much, but they allowed the Players a small amount of dignity. Fern, on the other hand, was one of two Players who got a private dressing room, with Buster being the other. Her room was much smaller, but it had an old and sturdy makeup table as well as a small loveseat, shabby and brown, which, owing to the fact that Buster's room lacked extra furniture, seemed to be a prop shoved in there because there was nowhere else to keep it. She also had her own storage space, handmade and wooden, with a rod up top and two shelves below it. That was where she had left her final items, her boots at the bottom and her bag on the next shelf up, beside her small stack of clothes consisting of a neatly-folded denim jacket, black thermal top, and thin plum scarf. Easy access, freedom at her fingertips.

Fern had thought about this as she sat on the loveseat to re-tie her sneaker. Something bothered her. Perhaps it was too easy. The clothes were harmless, inconspicuous, but the bag could be seen as mysterious and inviting. She did not know if a cleaning crew or a school faculty member would come through here between now and tomorrow afternoon. How could she be certain that they would not, and how could she be certain that they would not be tempted to look inside the bag? And could she be sure that the mini Maglite and lock pick kit, complete with thrift-store butter knife and a CTA card salvaged from the trash after her father's trip to Chicago would not raise enough alarm for someone to report it to the powers that be. MCM had a zero-tolerance policy against anything that could be perceived as a weapon. Fern found this policy a tad murky and hypocritical, especially for a building filled with scissors and shop tools and prop swords, knives, and guns, but the fact of the matter was that her pouch filled with pointy things could well be perceived as weapons by someone who was sensitive and tattletale-y enough. She felt a flutter of fear at the thought, but she had not come this far to back out now.

She reserved the option to bail out for tomorrow, when she assessed just how vigilant the chaperones were being. From what she had cleverly managed to coax out of George, who was on the Autumn Ball committee, she knew there would be a total of seven, including Principal Brooks, who liked to patrol the hallways during the ball. Everything beyond this evening depended on just how well guarded the hallways would be.

Fern could resolve the problem of her exposed bag, however; she just needed to think. Where could she hide it and easily retrieve it? Under the loveseat cushion? Not inconspicuous enough. What if it created a lump someone wanted to smooth out? She cast around the room until her eyes came to rest on the drop ceiling. Perfect. She snatched her bag from the shelf and climbed the arm of the loveseat, then she stepped onto her makeup table, minding the items she had strategically left on top of it. Rising to tiptoe, she pushed up one of the ceiling's tiles, which gave with ease, and she placed the bag just inside, making sure it was close enough to reach in an instant. This would add a few more seconds onto her escape, but it just might be worth it in the end. Fern sat and slid off the table just as there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" she said casually.

Sue Ellen peered in. "Ready?" she said cheerfully.

There had been a noticeable uptick in Sue Ellen's cheer since Arthur had asked her to the Autumn Ball, but Fern had not bothered to point this out, nor had she posed her suspicion that Arthur had an ulterior motive for asking her. Fern would not be able to go to the ball with Buster, but that did not mean she had to burst her friend's bubble and prevent her from enjoying the dance with her dream date.

"I think they're going to turn the lights off on us if we don't hurry."

"Yes," Fern said, noting how self-satisfied she sounded. "I'm definitely ready. Let's go."

"We need to make a quick stop before going home," her father continued. "I hope you're okay with pizza for dinner."

"Sounds great, Dad."

Her mother had already left Elwood City for the Franklin Expo earlier today, and Fern anticipated a house cleansed of Doria Walter's presence, if only for a couple of days, where she, Fern, could just be and do whatever she wanted, have dinner and talk with someone who saw her as a person rather than a puppet. It did sound great.

"I could rent a movie for after if you want, just like old times?"

"Um…maybe not tonight. I probably should go to bed early."

Fern wanted an hour or so for her new favorite pastime, reading the excerpts Omar had sent her, parts of Lucas Olsen's latest unintentionally hilarious masterpiece. When she had read his work for Wordsmith peer critiques, detached or otherwise abusive parental figures and budget cuts—space budget cuts, as Allison referred to them—had been the prevailing plot points. This work was no different in substance; it was just under a new title. Lucas, it seemed, was a one-trick pony, stuck on a creative plateau and unable to ascend to new heights. That, or he had issues and this was some sort of therapy fiction for him, which happened a lot with inexperienced writers, according to Stephanie Bachman. They wrote what they knew and only what they knew because they could not get past it. It was almost as if her insults wrote themselves. Fern had held back her harshest sentiments for Lucas during her short time with the writers' group, choosing instead to compliment his setting descriptions, something she genuinely found competent. If she rejoined the Wordsmiths after _The Music Man_ , she would hold back nothing. Such a tempting prospect…

"I get you," her father said. "Tomorrow's a pretty big day. Are you nervous about it?"

"No," she said, and she meant it. Thus far, everything had gone off without a hitch. "I think everything is going to be just—oh, _no_ …"

There was something she had missed after all. Her green notebook, the one containing all the work she had done on _Danger Girl_ , was still in her gray bag, which was currently stuck in her dressing room ceiling. Part of her original plan had been only for her bag to contain her flashlight and lock pick kit, to have the lightest possible load on her journey. But she had barely given her manuscript any thought over the past few days between planning her escape and laughing at Lucas. It should be on her desk at home right now, but it had slipped her mind.

"'Oh, no' what? What's wrong, Fernie?"

"It's nothing," Fern said, regaining her composure. "I just left a book I wanted to read this weekend in my locker. It's not the end of the world, though. I'll just renew it Wednesday."

It was not that big of a deal, just to leave it inside her bag. What was a couple of ounces when she had run with every schoolbook she possessed on her back for weeks? It irked her that she had missed this one tiny detail, but if that was the only mistake she made in her plan this weekend, she would be happy. Her plan had to make her happy. She had little else.

* * *

Buster was nearly home. He was hitching a ride with Arthur again in Mrs. Read's car, only Ladonna was not with them this evening. She had left school for Virginia around lunchtime today, and her absence felt odd. Before they were a thing, he probably would not have stressed over it, but it weighed on him now. Thankfully, Arthur stepped in to interrupt his moping.

"Mom, can Buster stay over tomorrow night?" he said out of nowhere, calling to his mother from the backseat.

"Sure," Mrs. Read said, "as long as it's okay with Mrs. Baxter."

It was something they had not discussed even once, a sleepover tomorrow night, and Buster shot Arthur a questioning look.

"Will you please call her after dinner? Thanks!"

"I don't remember—" Buster began.

"Look, I need a favor," Arthur whispered. "Sue Ellen asked me to go to the movies after the ball tomorrow and…well, I panicked and said I couldn't because I'm already going to the movies with you. Then you're spending the night, just in case she wanted to do something after _that_. I don't think I'm ready for anything beyond a dance as friends, but I also don't want to lie to her, so would you please just come over after I get home from the ball?"

Buster had not told Arthur he would not be gaming at home all day but attending the ball with Muffy instead. He did not wish to explain it to his best friend because he was already struggling to explain it to himself. He just hoped Ladonna would understand when all was said and done and he whisked her away on an incredible fun-filled date. She would want to know where he had gotten the money, and Buster did not think he could lie to her. The goal was to impress her so much that she could not get mad. Hopefully it would all work out.

"You wouldn't be in this predicament if you hadn't tried to get back at Francine," Buster whispered back.

"That's not why I did it."

"Sure, buddy. And half of America's most influential celebrities aren't secret alien reptiles…"

"Just help me?"

"Okay," Buster mouthed, flashing Arthur a thumbs up, then, more audibly, "I'm picking the movie, though."

Buster entered the condo and found his mother in the kitchen, taking one of her from-scratch chicken pot pies with extra peas out of the freezer. Although she had turned briefly to greet him with a smile, she looked lost in thought as she prepared the pie for the oven, lining a baking sheet with foil. She also looked extremely well dressed. Fridays were supposed to be casual, according to his mother, but underneath her apron, her creamy silk blouse and autumnal orange pencil skirt screamed "special occasion". She sometimes dressed extra nice when she had important meetings or special guests visiting the Times, so this was not completely out of the ordinary. However, Buster could not help but have a secret hope. Unlike last week, she had not offered him Sugar Bowl money, had not told him not to rush, which meant she likely would not be meeting his father for coffee tonight. But what if they had met up for lunch this afternoon instead? He knew he had promised Ladonna he would keep his expectations in check, but what was the harm in fantasizing, just a teensy bit?

Buster was about to tell his mother about Arthur's Francine/Sue Ellen blunder and warn her of the impending call from Mrs. Read, but she spun around immediately after closing the oven door.

"Pop quiz, hotshot," she said with a serious look. "You reheat a plate of last-night's spaghetti in the microwave, but it explodes, coating the interior with sauce. What do you do? What _do_ you do?"

"Uh…" Buster said, wondering if he was about to be in trouble, "clean the microwave immediately with warm water and a mild and non-abrasive detergent?"

His mother's face immediately brightened with a smile. "Ding-ding-ding! I've taught you well!"

Buster relaxed and joked with her. "Cool," he said. "What do I win?"

"How about Boston cream pie for dessert?"

"Awesome, but something tells me you were going to serve that anyway. What's the occasion?"

"Well, it's not every weekend a mom sees her Boo-Boo off to his first school dance. I wanted to spoil you one more time before you leave for Ladonna's tomorrow."

Buster had not told his mother about Muffy either. He shuddered to think what her opinion might be.

"Yeah, Ladonna's… Listen, Mom… Mrs. Read is going to call you later about spending the night at Arthur's. He needs me to get him out of a jam. So, can I go?"

His mother thought for a moment, likely processing the words "needs me to get him out of a jam" above all else, then, fleetingly, curiously, her eyes lit up, as if a solution to a problem she had been searching for had just presented itself.

"Sweetie," she said happily, "yes, you may. In fact, I think it's a wonderful idea. You and Arthur don't spend nearly as much time together as you used to. You boys have any special plans?"

"Um, movies, Arthur said?" offered Buster.

"Great. I'll run out and grab some cash from the ATM tomorrow morning, maybe extra in case you two want pizza or ice cream, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

"No problem. Now, go wash up and tell me about Arthur's jam while I make us a salad…"

Buster left for the bathroom, certain of two facts: His mother had definitely met his father for lunch today, and she was happy to keep her son occupied tomorrow night so she could see him again after the ball. And Buster was more than okay with it. He was stoked.

* * *

"And then she said, 'I'm moving out, Brett. I should've done it a long time ago and saved myself the headaches. I swear, first thing tomorrow I'm looking for a place. It'll be expensive, but it's worth it if it'll save my sanity.' She won't do it, though. This is about the fifth or sixth time she's threatened to move out of Mom and Dad's, and it hasn't happened yet."

It was after nightfall. Catherine stood inside the stall, lovingly brushing Axel's mane while Brett, who had traveled up from the boarding side of Tarver via golfcart to let off steam before leaving work, stood outside the gate, recalling his aggravating phone conversation with his younger sister, who still lived at home.

"I said, 'Alicia, honey, there's no way you're moving out. What would you complain about if you did?'"

Catherine could have burst into loud, cackling laughter, but she held it in, careful not to startle her favorite horse. "You are _so_ bad," she told Brett gleefully.

"I know," he said. "I'm not letting her live with me if she does. I've been trying to get Aaron to shack up for months, and I think I'm finally starting to wear him down. Maybe we can get a bigger apartment, or stay in my studio and save for a starter—you wanna get that?"

Catherine was ignoring her phone, which rang in her pocket. She often got scam calls around this time of day, and she figured tonight was no different. She shrugged and checked the number. She did not recognize it, so she declined it. "It's just Hank from the IRS, or whatever," she said with an eye roll. She put her phone away and stepped out of the stall, then drew a peppermint for Axel from her front pocket. "Go on. What did Alicia say?"

"She hung up on me! Can you believe it?"

As Catherine chuckled, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Hank from the IRS must have left a voicemail. That was rare.

"Anyway, I'll shut up so you don't have to stand out here and freeze your ass off. Goodnight. And goodnight, Axel!"

Catherine hugged Brett before he departed then fed the peppermint to Axel, giving his soft nose a few more gentle strokes before telling him goodnight as well. It was not late, but it was dark and cold, and she was dusty from head to toe. A hot shower was calling her name.

Upon drying off, Catherine checked her phone. Chip usually checked in with a text around this time of night, whenever he took a bathroom break, and she wanted to make sure she could respond in a timely manner. But there was nothing new in this week's string of messages.

**How are you doing?**

**Yahtzee?**

**What do you want for dinner?**

**Yahtzee?**

**Want to hear the most ironic thing ever? Jimmy and Mrs. Jimmy are going at it, and I can totally hear them through the wall.**

Catherine had responded to this text with: **That IS the most ironic thing ever!**

**You want to listen?**

Catherine had replied with: **NO! Are you going to complain?**

**I should but I'm not up for a war with my neighbors. I like living here.**

**Yahtzee?**

**Yahtzee?**

**Yahtzee?**

"Why does he call it that?" she muttered to herself before tossing her phone onto her bed and changing into her pajamas, a worn but comfy pair of red sweatpants and a white Tarver tee.

It was not just Yahtzee, not always. Sometimes it was not Yahtzee at all. Chip once texted her with: **I'll massage your feet if you massage mine.** Catherine had agreed, expecting another euphemism, but Chip had actually shown up after work and given her the most gloriously relaxing foot rub anyone could ask for. She had returned the favor, and Chip had all but passed out on her sofa until she had shaken him awake around four in the morning and made him leave. He had been groggy and unhappy about it, but he understood that it was not safe for him to stay any later.

A few minutes passed, and something felt off. Catherine grabbed her phone again and checked the time. Chip should have had a break by now. His shift had begun almost three hours ago. Did he forget? She did not think that was possible. He never forgot. Maybe he was slammed. It was Friday.

_Or maybe I should take the initiative._

It wasn't that she never wanted to. She did sometimes, it was just that Chip usually beat her to it. How must that make her look? Like she was cold? Like she was playing hard to get? Like she was forgetting her commitment to give more in their relationship?

_It's a text. Stop overthinking this and say something to him._

**Hope you're killing it tonight.** She paused, then: **Yahtzee later, if you're not too tired? ;)**

_Or a foot rub? No—just leave it there. We'll see how he responds._

After several minutes, she got nothing. Should she ask him if he was mad? He had never been angry with her, but there was a first time for everything. Catherine's eyes flitted to the top of her screen, where the voicemail tape icon still loomed. While she waited, she decided to listen and get a quick laugh. At least the stupid icon would disappear once she did.

Catherine pressed and held the number 1. Her voicemail feature engaged and played her only unheard message:

" _This message is for Catherine Frensky. Miss Frensky, this is Trevor Gillespie with The Waterfront Hotel regarding an urgent matter. Please give me a call back at 814-555-4878 at your earliest convenience. Thank you."_

Gooseflesh sprang all over her body as Catherine returned to her call log and dialed the number. There were three rings before someone picked up.

"Waterfront Hotel, this is Trevor—"

"Hello, Trevor? This is Catherine Frensky."

"Yes. Thanks for returning my call. I tried to reach you earlier because you are listed as the sole emergency contact for Charles Crosswire. I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but there has been an accident here at the hotel."

Catherine sat down on the bed, her legs unable to support her. She could barely breathe. Panicked, she cut Trevor off before he could continue, but instead of asking what had happened, she asked, surprising herself, "What did he do?"

_To be continued…_


End file.
